


Gerard Goes on a Soul Quest (Seriously)

by willgrahamchops



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blood, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Collars, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, Hand Jobs, Humor, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 117,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations. Maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was pretty inexperienced when I wrote this. I'm not going to take it down, but I do wanna let you guys know that I don't consider this my best work, so please don't judge my writing by it. And the geography stuff -- I'm sorry. Not sorry enough to go back and fix it, but pretty sorry. Hope it doesn't put you off the story.
> 
> That said, I still think the plot is pretty rad and there's lots of porn so maybe still read it?

Mikey’s breath hitched with a sort of eerie consistency whenever Gerard brushed over a certain spot, inhalations turning into tiny ‘ah’s that made Gerard’s pulse flutter like a trapped swallow. Mikey twitched, bit his lip, slid another inch off the bathroom counter.

“Hold still,” Gerard muttered under his breath, as if raising his voice would somehow break his concentration. His head was fuzzy from smell of it; his mind barely registered the stark fluorescent light. Only Mikey. They were already toeing the line of acceptability. God knows Gerard couldn’t afford to stumble now.

“Gee, it hurts,” Mikey whined, sniffling miserably. Gerard wished he’d stop holding back the tears -- Mikey was the little brother, the one in pain, and a little more affirmation of that might have made Gerard’s concern seem warranted. Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other cry before. Numerous times. It was probably Mikey’s turn anyway.

“Shh,” Gerard said, his best attempt at soothing. He carefully rested his hand over Mikey's, clasped on the counter’s lip, white-knuckled as if abusing the faux-marble would take his mind someplace quieter. Gerard absently traced the veins on Mikey’s hand, felt them standing out in sharp relief from the strain.

Too comforting?

Fuck, he shouldn’t have to worry about that around his brother -- he hadn’t always worried, but lately he’d been catching himself being weird and stopping for Mikey’s sake, like the goddamn outcast that he was, and once he was in the in the mentality of it all, he found it hard to remember what used to be normal. How close was too close before? Had Mikey always rested his head in Gerard’s lap to play his Gameboy? Gerard knew for-fucking-sure that he’d never paid so much attention to the way his brother's fingers deftly manipulated the buttons, the rapid tap of his thumb on B, even though he had an inventory full of great balls and they both knew button-mashing didn’t do shit to increase your catch rate. And he was still worrying about the hands, about how much was too much, and the fucking bruises up and down Mikey’s left arm were not helping -- Mikey unclenched his fist, just a fraction, and relaxed into the touch. Comforting. Normal. Right.

“My shoulder, too,” Mikey said, words merging into a hiss of pain, perhaps psychological, as Gerard pulled away and began twining medical tape around the newly-applied gauze. He tried his best to look at neither the soiled rag nor the salmon-pink water darkening with each rinse.

Mikey’s forearms took the blunt of the impact, but his shoulder caught the bottle. It was the biggest cut and he probably should have treated it first, but there was no way he could have handled the blood immediately after, not when the slow spread of it through Mikey’s thin cotton shirt had made his chest clench and his hands shake. Gerard wasn’t sure if he could handle it even now that he’d calmed down, but judging by Mikey’s choked off noises, it was only going to get worse if he didn’t try. Gingerly he peeled the navy shirt away. It clung wetly to the base of Mikey’s neck and the blood began seeping downward, staining the white logo.

Mikey was going to be pissed as soon he calmed down enough to remember which shirt it was; the top of the skull was now stained, copper quickly fading to a dingy brown. It seeped down through the eye socket. Like the thing was crying blood. Actually, Mikey might think it was kind of cool, a one-of-a-kind Misfits tribute, soaked in his own bodily fluids. Gerard wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle seeing him wear the thing anymore. He resolved to bury it in the garbage bin before Mikey came to his senses. He’d buy him a fucking new one.  
“Just--” Mikey grunted and twisted and Gerard considered grabbing the kitchen shears to cut the thing off completely. “Lemme put my arms--” and the rest of the sentence was muffled as Gerard tugged the shirt up and over his head.

He tossed it on the floor and the smell immediately did a number on his senses. Mikey vaguely wrinkled his nose but it made Gerard’s head spin and lungs convulse, unsure whether they wanted to get rid of the beautiful, putrid, human scent or keep breathing it forever. Suffocating in the smell of his brother’s blood. And God did that make his head pulse, make him mentally berate himself because it was a fucking disgusting thing to imagine. He paused to take a deep breath before he either vomited or buried his face in the shirt, maybe in Mikey’s shoulder.

Mikey glanced at him, raised an eyebrow like _you okay?_ But Gerard couldn’t get his facial features out of that deep-set, concentrated scowl. “Yeah,” he said aloud, and Mikey bit his lip almost imperceptibly, like _if you say so._

He steeled himself and swiped the rag across Mikey’s shoulder in broad, gentle strokes until the cut started to look a bit less angry. Unclenching his jaw, Gerard let himself slip into the warm, muted light of concentration until he couldn’t see anything but his hands reverse-painting Mikey’s skin. Every stroke brought a tiny increase in pressure. Gerard thought that if he took it slow, turned the volume up in increments, Mikey might just turn his pained sighs down a notch.

It worked too well, and Mikey went completely silent for almost a minute. If he wasn’t so intent in his focus, Gerard might have given more than a passing thought to Mikey’s toes curling and the color slowly draining out of his face. He didn’t, though, and Mikey went completely still as Gerard tried to get the bits of glass out without digging into the wound. Gerard did his best to keep the pressure steady and the bleeding slow, but maybe that wasn't what Mikey needed because the silence culminated in a sudden, shockingly pained groan and a twitch. Gerard jerked out of his happy place, or at least his not-going-into-shock place, only to see the wetness spilling down Mikey’s cheeks. Tears, and a trickle of stage-curtain red making its way down his chin. Gerard dropped the rag.

“Sorry!” Mikey choked out, like he was the one who should be apologizing. “Bit my lip. Not your fault.” He stared on expectantly, waiting for the hint of a smile, maybe a joke, ‘this is bad enough without you hurting yourself on purpose,’ but it didn’t come. Gerard couldn’t make himself laugh it off, had barely said a word since Mikey stumbled home, broken and bleeding and trying to tell him that it was okay. His heart seemed to slow down as his eyes were drawn to Mikey’s lips. It was one drop out of the the goddamn pints all over the linoleum floor. Maybe it tipped him over the edge or maybe he jumped, Gerard couldn’t fucking tell, and he couldn’t fucking stop himself from bracketing his brother’s jaw with one hand and using his thumb to smear the blood across his bottom lip. Maybe Gerard could stop himself from leaning in to taste, but he didn’t want to.

Mikey’s lips were slick where the blood had stained them. Gerard barely brushed against them at first, and then the suction drew him in and Mikey’s mouth parted with a barely audible ‘pop’ and oh _God_ , he could taste it, something raw and coppery as his tongue slid against Mikey’s.

Mikey. His brother.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling away and elongating the word into several pained syllables. Suddenly, the surrealism was gone and reality came crashing down around his head. Mikey had gone completely stiff and was staring back at him with enormous eyes. He looked childlike without his glasses. And Gerard scolded himself because of-fucking-course he looked childlike. He was a goddamn _child_ and in _high school_ and Gerard’s _brother._

Silence.

For a horrible moment nobody said anything, and then Mikey opened his mouth to speak.

Gerard fucking ran. He bolted out of the bathroom and out the door and into the street because he could not fucking _take_ it. He had no desire to hear what Mikey had to say and _fuck_ , his brother’s blood was literally still on his hands, drying in tiny halos underneath his fingernails. He sped up, like maybe if he really got going his thoughts wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.

~

About twenty minutes later, Gerard started thinking again. It was a slow process at first: the stagnant buzz of summer air wormed its way into his head; then the haze gradually faded from his surroundings: late-blooming cherry trees lined the dirt path, their blossoms browning and floating to the ground where they inevitably wound up squished between Gerard’s toes. _Bare feet_ , he registered vaguely.

Awareness of his body hit him like a slap to the face, and then everything hurt. Bits of gravel dug into the soft soles of his feet like Legos scattered on the stairs, and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. His head was still pounding, and it wasn’t until he tried to rub his eyes that he realized he was crying.

Gerard felt like he was always crying. Stupid things set him off these days, from books to movies to fucking paintings, but especially Mikey. He’d spent many a night curled up in his bed, sobbing quietly and thinking of his brother. Just banal stuff, like the way he tripped down the last three stairs every morning or how he grit his teeth and shifted his weight around when he played racing games; Gerard wasn’t even sad. He just couldn’t stop the waterworks and he didn’t know why.

Thinking about crying just made him cry harder. He felt fucking pathetic, running away from his problems, but it wasn’t like he could go _back_ , so he just fell gracelessly to his knees and sobbed his heart out. It was a loud, messy ordeal, complete with full-body convulsions and snot dripping down his face. He had to wipe his nose every couple of seconds and will himself not to run his soiled hands through his limp, matted hair. People always said that crying was supposed to release bottled emotions, but fuck _that_. He felt a million times worse: his face was gross and he was shaking and he was kneeling in the middle of the dirt path winding through the park. There were probably hypodermics or something scattered in the grass, silently waiting to impale his feet.

After a few more minutes of feeling sorry for himself, Gerard sighed, finger-combed his hair out of his face -- fuck, so much for keeping it clean -- and began trudging back toward the house. He let his mind wander but kept his eyes on the ground in case any druggies had left their needles on the sidewalk.

Depression wasn’t new: he’d blamed everything from his pill popping to his burnt toast on a chemical imbalance at some point, but this felt different. Before, he’d go through spells where nothing would hold his attention, as evidenced by the stack of half-finished, half-assed drawings in the bottom drawer of his desk, but now he threw himself into his art with a fervent, violent passion. Maybe his precision and attention to detail suffered for it, but at some point it stopped being about the finished product and started being about escapism. It would be a great alternative to drinking, except for the fact that he was throwing himself into that passtime with a violent passion too.

In the past he’d felt lost in his own mind. Bad feelings drifted through him with no discernible origin, weighed him down and left. This was more of a nonstop earthquake of the soul, and _shit,_ that was cheesy, but it was true. Mikey sat squarely in the epicenter and radiated new shock waves with every movement. It wasn’t his brother's _fault_ : Mikey had always bitten his nails and twirled his hair around one finger while he texted. It wasn't some cunning plot to seduce Gerard. He wasn't seeing his brother in a new light, either: this particular light had always been there, illuminating the darkest corners of Gerard's mind. A goddamn spotlight, with those little red and green laser beams that shot out into the audience at clubs, and maybe a neon sign with an arrow pointing at Mikey and saying ‘look at me! I’m awkward and maturing and sexy!’. He wasn’t going to play dumb and pretend that he didn’t know what these feelings were; he knew all too well. He wanted Mikey, and that in itself was terrifying and wrong enough, but he also wanted to possess Mikey. Wanted to hold him down and fuck him and let the whole world know that this was his brother, his property, that they couldn’t touch him. Worst of all was sick thrill that had jolted through him when he’d flipped on the bathroom light and clearly seen how broken Mikey looked, voice scratchy, eyes dim, blood streaked down his arm. It turned him on and made his stomach churn because he _liked_ it, and that was fucking horrible. Because he wanted to see more.

This -- this _thing_ , this sadism -- it seemed to be the root of his attraction. The night before, Mikey fell asleep on the couch next to him while they watched _Night of the Living Dead_ for the ten billionth time. It was late enough to be early again and Mikey was curled awkwardly against him, mouth open and drooling on his shoulder. Gerard hadn’t thought a damn thing of it. Because his brother wasn't fucking _bleeding._

That was how it should be, because Gerard and Mikey had spent the better part of their lives being best friends. It was quiet and effortless. They rarely fought, and for the longest time, wherever Gerard went, Mikey wasn’t far behind. He’d sit on the bed and read comics while Gerard painted. They started buying games with a co-op mode almost exclusively. When Gerard showered (rarely) or did his makeup (every day), Mikey sat on the counter and played Pokemon. Until he was fourteen. Hell, he’d started back up recently, and that made things fucking awkward because Gerard’s Shower Time had only _recently_ required privacy.

Thinking about Mikey and counters only forced Gerard to picture him sitting there in a completely different context, bruised and bleeding on the floor, and _okay,_ maybe Gerard had some kind of weird undiscovered blood fetish or something. He could live with that. It kind of made sense, actually: he had always found blood and gore kind of fascinating, with his comics and _Fangoria_ and -- no. He wasn’t going to go all Wertham on the issue: whatever it was, it came from him, and he was okay with that. The problem was that it was directed at _Mikey._

Looking back, he realized that he’d never asked Mikey who did it to him. Mikey’s muttered “barfight” was plenty, especially since his subconscious told him that it was over, that he should pay attention to the result rather than the process for once. He should have asked, should have tracked down the motherfucker who did this to his brother and fucking strangled him, but the righteous anger just wouldn’t come. He couldn’t ask now. He couldn’t even look Mikey in the eye. He was sick in the head and couldn’t even apologize for what he’d done because he was such a fucking coward.

Gerard twisted the doorknob angrily. It didn’t budge.

“Fuck,” he groaned. Why didn't he think of this before he ran off? He refused to knock, so he cautiously hoisted himself off the concrete front stoop, managing to slam his head off the low windowsill in the process, and started feeling around in the bushes, praying to any god that would listen that he hadn’t left the spare key on the kitchen table again.

“Gee?”

His head jerked up at the soft sound. Mikey was peeking through the door, opening it all the way even as Gerard scrambled to his feet. The first thing Gerard noticed was that his glasses were on again, maybe in an attempt to hide the puffiness around his eyes. He felt a sharp pang of resentment; _why would he wait until Gerard was gone to cry?_ It soured into guilt as soon as it crossed his mind. Seeing Mikey cry was the last thing he needed, except then he felt even worse because that wasn’t true. In fact, some dark part of him reveled in the thought of holding Mikey while he convulsed -- not how he usually cried, soft and silent, but choking, desperate sobs, entire body completely wrecked from exhaustion. That sick bit of Gerard's psyche practically purred when he realized that Mikey was probably crying because of _him._

For an instant, half of him wanted to run right back to the goddamn park and the other half wanted to hug Mikey, but he didn’t trust himself to keep it at that. Without his consent, his body tried to do both at the same time and he ended up running at Mikey, but Mikey dodged at the last second and he ended up skidding to a stop on the raggedy living room carpet. At least he was inside. That was a start.

Mikey just stared for a moment before gently closing the door to keep from waking anyone.

“Gee?” He asked again, like he needed permission to speak or something. Maybe he thought that Gerard would go off on him if he said anything more, and he might not have been entirely wrong. Gerard sunk miserably to the floor. He couldn’t remember how to make his vocal chords work, but he silently willed Mikey not to come any closer. Gerard wasn’t himself. He was honestly afraid that he would do something if Mikey got too close.

“Are you okay?” He asked, thankfully keeping his distance, only crouching down to eye level. His lip had stopped bleeding.

“Hnng,” Gerard said. Mikey worried his lip with a carefully blank expression and waited for Gerard to speak, but the words just weren’t coming. He _wanted_ to say something, warn Mikey that he was feeling less than brotherly and that he might seriously hurt him if he wasn’t careful. He was so used to sharing every thought and feeling that it was welling up in his gut, making him sick, but he just couldn’t. He was going to do something crazy any second and he couldn’t say a word. He only wanted to protect his brother.

Then, an idea struck him like a pigeon to the fucking face, fully formed and squawking for attention. It was so _simple_. Gerard stood up jerkily, watching Mikey rise with him, jerked his head as best he could, like _I’m fine, don’t follow me_ , and bolted for his room.

The doors were supposed to lock, but his was broken when they bought the house and nobody had ever bothered to fix it. That was okay. Mikey wouldn’t try to come in when Gerard was so clearly in need of some alone time.

Everything about his room seemed foreign, especially the familiar things. B-Movie posters lined the walls in uneven rows. The clothes and comics and general Gerard Mess insulating the floor -- maybe that was why the place got so goddamn hot in the summer -- seemed completely out of place, like maybe they’d never belonged to him in the first place. Quickly, thoughtlessly, he made his way to the closet, not caring how many issues of _Doom Patrol_ he stepped on along the way. He was on a fucking mission.

Gerard found his old backpack behind the suit he never wore and the girls’ jeans he wore far too often. It hadn’t been moved since graduation almost two years ago. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he still lived with his parents two years after graduation, instead going through his mental list of shit to pack.

Sketchpad. Art supplies. Walkman. Cell phone plus car charger. He shoved an armful of jeans and t-shirts into the top of the bag, realized there was no room left for anything else, took them out and carefully picked out two pairs of jeans -- the blue ones that fit well and the black ones that fit _really_ well -- and a few band shirts he couldn’t live without. On second thought, he grabbed a cardigan Mikey never wore that somehow ended up draped over Gerard's computer chair. It would keep him warm and take up less room than a hoodie, he reasoned, ignoring the nagging bit of him that wanted to keep some reminder of his brother.

Toiletries. He rifled through the bathroom and ended up packing pretty much everything that didn’t have a carefully sharpied ‘Mikey’s’ on it -- the kid was serious about his hair-care products. He grabbed an entire bottle of generic Aspirin to go with the prescription shit already in his bag. Fifteen precious minutes were spent trying to remember where he kept his emergency cash until he realized that he’d spent it on booze a couple of weeks back.

Gerard stood arguing with himself in front of the mirror. His mom kept a hundred bucks under the guest room mattress for just such an occasion. He’d found it one cold night when their parents were out and he and Mikey had curled up together in the guest bed right above the boiler, pressed close, not really for warmth but just because it felt nice. Gerard’s stomach lurched with guilt and his thoughts lurched back on track: he couldn’t take his mom’s money -- shit, that was a warning sign for something-or-other, he was sure of it -- but he couldn’t _stay_ either.

He did it. Of course he did it, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? Gerard tiptoed gingerly upstairs, looking both ways at the top of the stairwell, like a semi could come barrelling toward him at any second. He briefly wished he had a Crossing Buddy to hold his hand.

The guest room was tiny and beige, completely tidy from disuse. He’d only slept in it once since Mikey had fallen sick a few summers ago and convinced their mom to keep the thermostat at seventy-two during the winter. He jammed his hand between the mattress and the bedspring and felt around, not caring how much he ruffled the sheets in the process. It was probably better if his parents found out he’d taken it right away, got all their anger out in one sitting so they could devote the rest of their attention to Mikey. He’d be heartbroken. Ever fiber of Gerard’s being ached from guilt: he was just abandoning Mikey and he was _stealing his parents money_ to do it.

Mikey was going to be _heartbroken_ \-- shit. What if Mikey followed him? Gerard would have to say something to discourage him. He knew _how_ , but that didn’t mean he wanted to. do it

He found the cash after a few seconds of searching: five twenties, folded irreversibly by the weight of the mattress. Trying his best not to think, he pocketed them and flung the door open again. Gerard stalked determinedly back to the basement and hoisted his bag over his shoulder, gave his room a cursory once-over. He paused for a moment to wait, because if he was going to come to his senses, now would be the time. Nothing much happened. He just felt tired and miserable and not nearly drunk enough to handle any of this, so he gave his room a jerky salute and went to find Mikey.

It wasn’t hard. Morrissey’s voice was blasting so loud from Mikey’s headphones that Gerard could hear it through the door. Nobody would notice if he knocked, so he just dumped his bag in the hall, steeled himself, and kneed the door open. As expected, Mikey was sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring expressionlessly at his hands. His head jerked up as soon as Gerard entered, deer-in-the-headlights, but also like he’d been anticipating the intrusion. He scrambled to his feet immediately and tossed his mp3 player on the pillow. Gerard fidgeted.

“Gee,” Mikey said softly. That was basically all he’d said since he’d come home that night. It made Gerard irrationally angry.

“Mikey,” he replied lamely. Now or never. He had to explain things. “Um. We need to talk.” He mentally kicked himself for being so cliched, but words were _hard_ , okay? His youthful determination had left the building, replaced by equal parts guilt and nausea, and Mikey just stood there all gangly and awkward and expectant. He looked lonely already. Gerard tried to keep his voice steady.

“I’m--” he began with a false start. “I have to leave.” Mikey just stared, so he went on. “I uh, need some time. Alone. A lot of time.” Fuck, that sounded bad. “B-but it’s not your fault or anything! I just need to take some time to... find myself. I’m going to travel, I guess. And draw. Like a soul quest.” He almost laughed because he just said ‘soul quest’ out loud and meant it, but Mikey’s expression made it catch in his throat. He looked a little angry but still mostly broken, and it was hard to tell with Mikey anyway, brothers or not.

“This is about the kiss.”

It wasn’t a question. Mikey was just getting it out there, never one to skirt a problem, and the phrase hung anvil-heavy in the air. Gerard tried hard to wrap his brain around the fact that yes, that _was_ what had happened: he had kissed his brother. Not the cheek kisses reserved for family or even the soft, comforting brush of lips reserved for him and Mikey, forever a bit too affectionate. No, it had been a crossing-the-line kind of kiss. There was no hope left of crossing back over and pretending it never happened. Not with Mikey so blatantly acknowledging it.

“Yeah,” Gerard said, “but not just that.” He paused. How much was he willing to admit? He didn’t _want_ to do it, but he had to discourage Mikey following him, and there was no better way to do that than by telling the truth. “Mikes, I have to leave because I don’t want to hurt you--” he started, but to his surprise, Mikey cut him off, expression suddenly shifting from sullen to full-on rage.

“You don’t want to hurt me? Seriously? I knew you’d say that the second you opened the door!” Gerard was taken aback. Mikey was suddenly getting in his personal space, crowding him against the closed door. “Come on, you do stupid shit all the time! Remember when you got smashed and pissed in my bed? You didn’t have to go on a goddamned soul quest to fix that,” he spit. Gerard just stared as Mikey’s face reddened. He wasn’t sure he’d heard Mikey say this much at once, like, ever, but now the floodgates were open and it as just pouring out. “You don’t want to hurt me. Fuck, d’you think I’m a twelve year old girl or something? That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard!”

“It’s not an excuse!” He protested, but Mikey barreled over him. He was right there, chest practically pressed against Gerard’s.

“So you fucking kissed me. So what? It wasn’t awful. It doesn’t mean we’re fucking married; I’m not gonna cry when you tell your friends we’re not going out!” Then Gerard’s hands were on his shoulders and he was spinning Mikey around, slamming him against the door with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. Mikey whimpered. Actually whimpered, and Gerard belatedly realized that his fingers were digging into the fresh wound just below his left collarbone. He let up a little bit, but he had a point to make, so he got right in Mikey’s face and hissed, low and dangerous:

“I don’t think you understand. I’m not talking about breaking your fucking heart here.” 

Mikey actually bared his teeth. Gerard couldn’t remember a time they’d ever fought like this.

“What, then? Worried that we won’t be the same? ‘Cause we won’t be the same if you’re fucking gone, either.”

Mikey really wasn’t getting it. The last thing Gerard wanted to do was come out and say it, but his mouth was running without his brain’s consent and maybe that was for the best. If discouraging was what he was going for.

“I’m talking about breaking your fucking ribs, Mikey,” he said, each word sharpened to cut.

Mikey paled and shifted imperceptibly from fury to -- what? Fear? But Gerard couldn’t stop there. “There’s something seriously wrong with me. If I stay, I will hurt you. When I was fixing your arm and you were fucking -- fucking bleeding all over me? I liked that. That’s what gets me off, and that’s not okay.” He willed himself to shut up. Mikey was pale enough already, must have been scared. That was enough. Mikey wouldn’t follow him, but Gerard couldn’t stop. Saying the words out loud made them feel real, and that made him stronger, like maybe if he got it all out in the open he’d actually have the resolve to follow through with his plan. “I- I wanted to be the one doing that to you. Still do. Mikey, I want to make you beg me to hurt you.” And that was too far. Way too far. Fuck, he didn’t want to admit that to himself, let alone his fucking brother.

He realized that he’d been digging his fingers into Mikey’s shoulder a little more with each syllable. The cut had started bleeding anew, seeping lazily through the bandage and Mikey was panting hard and trembling visibly under his touch. He couldn’t unclench his hand. There was a long, terrible silence in which Mikey breathed and Gerard didn’t, and then Mikey said the last thing Gerard expected to hear:

“Hurt me, motherfucker.”

Mikey leaned forward as best he could and kissed him. Violently. Their teeth clashed together and Mikey forced his tongue into Gerard’s mouth, hot and wet and obscene. Gerard froze completely while Mikey fucking ravished him, because this was not one of the many possible scenarios that had flitted through his mind upon entering the room. He couldn’t make himself move until maybe ten seconds in -- Mikey was _not_ giving up -- when Mikey’s bottom lip split again. Then he couldn’t _stop_ moving: he shoved his brother back against the door and met him with lips and tongue and teeth, pressing his thigh between Mikey’s legs and bracing a hand against the door frame for support. The other one was busy working its way under the gauze. Mikey panted and groaned into his mouth. He was grinding shamelessly against Gerard’s thigh, backing off the kiss and letting Gerard practically tongue-fuck him. When he finally got two fingers under the bandage -- and he didn’t even notice he was doing it -- Mikey stopped moving, save the erratic thrust of his hips. His eyes welled over, tears streaking messily down his cheeks, but his hands were fisted in Gerard’s hair and he yanked hard enough to hurt every time Gerard tried to pull away.

The kiss ended but Mikey wouldn’t let Gerard move them, instead mouthing wordlessly against his lips, saliva dripping down both their chins. Gerard’s brain had completely switched off at some point. All that mattered was Mikey: his smell, the feel of him pressed bodily against Gerard. He withdrew his fingers from under the gauze, slick and red, to shove them into Mikey’s mouth, and that was it. Mikey groaned, long and desperate, and held Gerard tight against him as he shuddered and panted through his climax, and oh God, Gerard was maybe a little bit overwhelmed. Mikey let go and slumped bonelessly to the ground, Gerard kneeling with him to keep him from hitting his head.

Gerard had just fingered his fucking open wound, but of course he couldn’t have Mikey hitting his head. 

Mikey panted up at him with half-lidded eyes as Gerard felt the familiar sensation of the world crashing down around him. He was still rock hard in his jeans and he’d just made his brother come in his pants and the only thing he was sure of was that he absolutely, positively could not handle this. They spent several long moments staring into each other’s eyes. Gerard tried to nonverbally convey as much as he could: _I told you so_ and _I love you_ and _I’m so fucking sorry, Mikes._ And Mikey’s expression didn’t change; no silent _it’s okay_ or _I love you too_ , just dazed awe and complete incomprehension.

Gerard opened the door and Mikey shifted to lean on the door frame. He grabbed his bag, rested a hand in Mikey’s disheveled hair and tried to speak. All he could manage was:

“Disinfect that,” and then he was gone.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

“Mom, I thought you said we had butter!” The voice skipped the stairs entirely and just floated up through the ceiling to the second floor. Everyone heard everything in the Iero house -- it turned out to be quite a problem once they opened for business, especially with couples, so soundproofing the suites had become a family effort. Frank helped hang the first two stage curtains before the dust gave him a coughing fit; after that he just stood in the dining room and yelled “can you still hear me?” until he stopped getting responses.

“Did you check the fridge?” His mom called back, like that wasn’t the first place he always checked.

Frank sighed. “Yeah! There’s like a quarter of a stick!”

“What?” Came the articulate reply.

“I said there’s like a quarter of a stick!” There was a long pause, during which Frank checked the fridge a second time, once again coming up empty handed. He couldn’t make shortbread cookies without butter. That was like, _all that was in them._

Finally: “Did you check the pantry?”

Frank couldn’t help but roll his eyes. His mom meant well, really -- she was probably balancing the books or something and couldn’t be bothered to come downstairs. Frank couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs either, so he guessed they were about even.

“Yeah! Look, I’m just going to run to the Quik Mart! Do you need anything?” He asked, rifling through three hoodies hanging on the kitchen chairs before finding his wallet. There was a change jar on top of the cabinet and it was generally full of plenty of not-change, so he grabbed a ten out of there and shoved it in his back pocket.

“Get me a Coke, would you?” Was his mom’s muffled reply.

“Okay!”

“And don’t forget to take your Lactase if you plan on eating that butter!”

“Sure!” Frank yelled back, slipping on the sneakers with the crushed-down heels and unlocking the door behind him. His mom always forgot and left it locked during the day, when they were supposed to be a _walk-in_ thing.

~

The five minute stroll to the Quik Mart wasn’t awful even in the winter, and it was actually kind of nice in the late summer sun. Even if every old dude on their street seemed to be outside mowing the lawn, and they just _had_ to stop Frank and ask how he was doing, how was his mother? She was such a nice woman; shame she was all on her own, but she had her son to take care of her, eh Frankie? And Frank nodded politely even though his mom could take care of herself just fine. And yes, business had been going pretty well lately, thanks.

Five minutes quickly turned in to twenty, but he got there eventually, if a little worse for wear. Frank scampered across the nearly-empty parking lot. The automatic doors were a new addition. He pulled an extravagant little hand-wave, standing on his toes to reach the sensor, partially out of habit but mostly because it made him feel like a Jedi.

Somebody snorted to his left. Frank cut off his sweet moves mid-gesture. His head shot up immediately, and if he was blushing just a bit, he wouldn’t admit it.

There was a guy sitting on the ground next to the trashcan. He was kind of hunched in on himself and greasy black hair was obscuring his face, so it was no surprise that Frank hadn’t noticed him before executing aforementioned sweet moves. He was maybe around twenty, wearing an Iron Maiden shirt and the tightest black jeans Frank had ever seen. Seriously, his mom would never let him buy those. Not even if he cleaned the suites for like a year.

The guy pulled a little lopsided grin. Frank waved in response and hurried abashedly into the store.

Kristy, the cashier, greeted him when he came in. She was sweet. Younger than him; a Junior, maybe? A little chubby, with dark blonde hair that she always pulled up into pigtails. Maybe it was a childish way to wear it, but Frank secretly thought it was kind of cute. He briefly wondered what he would look like with pigtails if he ever grew his hair out long enough.

Frank wandered through the food aisle, mind shifting absently between pigtails and the homeless guy outside. His hair was probably long enough to pull up. Now that he thought about it, Frank couldn’t remember ever seeing him before, even though he kept careful tabs on all the local guys who wore girls’ jeans.

“Hey, Kristy,” he smiled, dropping his butter and the Coke on the counter. She smiled back, and a thought hit him. “Hey, uh, do you know who that dude is, sitting outside?” Kristy stopped scanning the butter to scrunch up her nose in thought. One hand on her hip, she leaned backwards to get a good look at the guy’s back through the front window.

“No,” she replied finally, stretching the word into two syllables and pressing a button on the cash register. “I mean, he was in here buying smokes this mornin’, maybe eleven? Stuck around. I thought about askin’ him to leave, but he’s not doin’ no harm.” She finished ringing him up and bounced one stubby, nail-bitten finger off the enter button. “Three fifty even,” she said. Frank glanced out the window again.

“Hey, uh, d’you think you could add another Coke on there?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheek. She grinned again and grabbed the Coke to scan it a second time. Kristy sure smiled a lot.

“Five twenty-two,” she amended. He mumbled “thanks” and passed her the ten, obliviously jammed the change in his pocket.

Frank waved his way out the sliding door and hesitated on the curb. He wasn’t actually sure how this was supposed to work -- was there like, some kind of hobo etiquette code? If there was, he hadn’t met enough hobos to figure out what it was all about.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly, thrusting the drink in the guy’s face. “I got you a Coke.”

The guy looked up and squinted at him blearily. His eyes were caked with smudged mascara. Seriously smudged. He looked like a vampire panda. The staring went on for maybe thirty seconds longer than was comfortable, and Frank had just started wondering if the guy was schitzo or something when he gingerly took the soda. Frank smiled hopefully.

“Um,” said Tight Pants Dude. “Thanks.” That was probably all he was going to get, so Frank nodded happily and started off in the direction from which he’d come. He was about halfway across the parking lot when the guy called after him. “Wait! Do you want a cigarette or something, man?” Frank paused. The guy was sitting in a convenience store parking lot and was maybe a rapist, but, well. Frank really did want a cigarette.

He backtracked to the garbage can and slid into a sitting position. The guy hummed a little, maybe in approval, and stuck a cigarette in Frank’s mouth with two fingers. Frank couldn’t help but giggle as the guy got up in his face, cupped his hands and lit it.

“Mm. Thanks,” he said, taking a long drag and coughing a bit on the exhale. He belatedly remembered why he didn’t smoke around other people, silently cursing his lungs.

“No problem,” the guy muttered, and either he didn’t notice Frank’s defective breathing or he was too polite to comment. Then, after a moment: “I’m Gerard.”

“Frank,” he replied, following Gerard’s lead. He smiled shyly and glanced up at the guy through his thick fringe. They smoked in near-silence, save Frank’s coughs and the carbonated hiss when Gerard cracked open his soda. Frank’s mom was probably wondering where he was. Not worrying per se, because it wasn’t like he could get in a lot of trouble in their little backwoods town if he tried. Not even a town, more of an intersection. Whatever. Then again, Frank was smoking with a possible rapist, so he guessed that was dangerous. Maybe not. Gerard looked more like the rape victim, with the eye makeup and those fucking pants. Where do hobos even get the money for eyeliner? Frank was pondering this while his brain-to-mouth filter slowly shut off.

“Are you homeless?” Frank blurted out, and oh shit, _why_? Gerard raised his eyebrows until they threatened to disappear into his hair. Frank held his breath and twisted his face into something sort of apologetic but mostly amused at his own stupidity. Then Gerard snorted again, started laughing high in his throat. That made Frank laugh too, and the conversation (or lack thereof) basically devolved into a fit of giggles.

“What the fuck,” Gerard finally choked out, grinning and clutching his middle. “Seriously? Is that why you bought me pop?” Frank tried to catch his breath and shrugged tightly, because yeah, that was pretty much the gist of it. Gerard stubbed his cherry out on the sidewalk. “Fuck no, I’m not homeless. Well, kind of.” His face twisted up in thought. “I’m on, uh, a soul quest?”

That just started Frank laughing again. “To backwoods New Jersey? Sorry man, not much soul to be found in the Quik Mart.” Then, as an afterthought: “Well, I think they sell little Jesus shot glasses if you want them.”

“Yeah, ‘Cause I really want the Lord judging me while I get smashed and throw shit out the window,” Gerard deadpanned. “No, it’s not that kind of quest. I’m, uh, an artist, actually.” Frank perked right up at that. There was like one person who could draw in the entire town, and that was Mrs. Berkley. And she only did pictures of peoples’ cats.

“That’s awesome!” he said, because shit, that was awesome. “Can I see? Do you keep a portfolio or something?” Gerard hesitated visibly but reached for his backpack.

“Um. I’m not actually that good--” he hedged.

“Fuck that,” said Frank, reaching across him to snatch the sketchpad out of his hands. Gerard sighed and kind of folded in on himself as Frank leafed through it. The first twenty or so pages were mostly combinations of every awesome mythical beast Frank could think of. There were two dudes riding what he was pretty sure was a zombie dragon, with holes in its wings and everything, and about fifty billion sketches of some guy with glasses, each one with a fantasy element: here he was a werewolf, there he had goggles and a machete. There was a particularly kick-ass one with devil horns and spidery black wings, done up in ink with confident, bold strokes. Further into the book, things got progressively more realistic. There were a shitload of portraits of different people, never the same one twice. Old, young, covered in piercings. They were pretty sweet, but Frank was a little disappointed when he realized there were no more demon-vampire hybrids. There was a half-finished sketch on the last page.

“Dude, is this me?”

Gerard looked up from his lap and smiled shyly. “Yeah. I did it while you were in the store.”  
“But you saw me for like three seconds! Using the force to open those doors,” Frank gestured widely toward said doors, but the sensor caught his hand and they slid open obligingly. He started giggling again.

“Through the window,” Gerard elaborated. “Uh, I guess that’s sort of creepy.”

“It’s okay, man, artists are allowed to be creepy. It’s like their _job_.”

“And God knows I could use one of those,” said Gerard wistfully. Frank stubbed his cigarette out and flicked it into the trashcan. He missed, naturally, and it bounced off the wall and into the parking lot.

“Oh yeah. How’re you paying for gas?” He asked and immediately regretted it. “Uh, you don’t have to tell me,” he backtracked, but Gerard didn’t seem phased.

“I’m not. Paying. It’s a hitchhiking soul quest. That’s kind of why I’m stuck here.” Frank raised his eyebrows like, _oh?_ and Gerard’s eyes widened at the expression and his face fell. He fidgeted. “I was trying to get to New York City, actually. Thought I’d find a job and do the whole bohemian thing for awhile -- you know how our culture romanticizes that kind of shit -- but it turns out I can’t even make it across the state line.”

“Buttfuck nowhere, huh?”

“Buttfuck nowhere,” Gerard confirmed. “I got in with this guy who said he was headed straight to NYC, just had to go a little out of the way first to pick up his sister. Stopped for food and he kind of, uh. Kind of left me here.”

Frank gave Gerard the you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me look he’d been working on. Gerard nodded gravely.

They sat together in silence while Frank played ping-pong with his thoughts: he could help Gerard out. Actually, he really wanted to help Gerard out, because Gerard was a cool older dude who wore girls’ jeans and liked Iron Maiden and drew zombie dragons, but on the other hand, his mom would fucking flip if he brought home a stray and made him eggs and toast.

Unless.

“You don’t have any money, do you?” He asked hopefully. Gerard tensed up and shot him a suspicious glance. That was probably warranted, Frank conceded.

“Maybe fifty bucks left. Why?”

Frank’s face brightened. “Well, my mom and I run a bed and breakfast a few blocks down. It’s really the only place to sleep around here, unless you want to sneak in someone’s window.” He tried to watch Gerard without watching Gerard, out of the corner of his eye, praying please please please God let him stay! He drummed his thumb rapidly against the concrete and imagined he was tapping B.

“I think I should probably save my--”

Frank cut him off. “I can convince her to let you stay if you just pay half. And you’re on your own -- we charge way more to couples. Just like, give me twenty-five bucks and I’ll seriously cover the rest.” He could always mess with his mom’s books if worst came to worst.

Frank smiled to himself because wow, he was suddenly making sacrifices for some guy he’d only just met.

Gerard hesitated. Frank tried to smile convincingly.

Finally, he sighed. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

~

Gerard sat at the dining room table, fidgeting and sipping his coffee. Frank had never seen anyone get more excited over coffee. Seriously., he’d mentioned it and Gerard had practically come in his ridiculous jeans, actually rolling his eyes back in his head.

“ _Hell_ yes,” Gerard had said, “I haven’t had a cup in like four days. Don’t even talk to me about that gas station shit.” So Frank had put on a pot of coffee and covertly shoved his chair-hoodies in the linen closet. He’d probably forget where they were later, but whatever. His mom would find them next time she changed the guest room sheets.

“Just a second; I’ll be right back,” he’d said, and hurried upstairs to find him mom. She was sitting at her desk reading a paperback, spreadsheets abandoned in the open drawer. Frank knocked on the door frame.

“Hey. Uh, we have a customer.” She dog-eared her book and glanced up at him.

“But?” She asked.

“Uh?”

“I heard a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence,” she said seriously. Frank rolled his eyes. Fucking _moms_ , man; gotta be psychic.

“Well. Yeah. He got abandoned? At the Quick Mart? He can only pay like twenty-five.”

His mom sighed heavily and brushed her hair out face like she always did when Frank was being unreasonable. Frank shrunk in on himself because okay, maybe that wasn’t the first time he’d tried to lower the fee to keep someone really cool another night. Interesting people didn’t usually stay in Dogwood, so when somebody who played guitar or lived in the city or told stories checked in, Frank did pretty much everything he could to make them stay as long as possible. He couldn’t help it. This town was boring.

“I’ll do all the cooking,” he bargained, “and wash his clothes. If he has clothes. We can just hang out in my room and we won’t bother you, I promise!” His mom sighed again, but it wasn’t exasperated, rather an ‘oh Lord, Frank, what am I going to do with you?’ kind of sigh. “I love you,” he grinned, and his mom laughed and caved.

“Okay, but you have to check him in. _And don’t let him eat all the shortbread cookies_!” she called after Frank, who was already bounding down the stairs two at a time.

Gerard was still sitting at the table, but the pot was almost empty and his posture had improved dramatically, like a flower wilting in reverse. He was drawing with charcoal now, smudged all across his right hand and his forehead, probably from trying to brush his hair out of his face. Gerard obviously didn’t notice. Frank stopped in his tracks and tiptoed the rest of the way down the stairs, trying to get a glimpse of the picture over his shoulder. Gerard noticed but he didn’t flip the book closed, just ducked to the side to let Frank get a better look. It was the picture of him in the Quik Mart, but now there were deep black shadows all across the page, twisting up Frank’s arms like living things and pooling under his jaw.

“Shit,” Frank said, bending over to brace an elbow on the table and rest his chin in his hand.

“That’s so cool. You are _so cool_!” Gerard was obviously trying not to smile.

“Did you uh -- can I stay?” he asked, changing the subject, probably because he didn’t want to talk about the fact that he was like, _so cool._

Frank’s face brightened. “Yep! As long as we don’t bother my mom. And I have to check you in.” Frank turned on his heel, paused, and gestured to the foyer when Gerard didn’t follow. “That happens over here,” he elaborated. The kitchen chair squeaked painfully as Gerard got up and plodded across the floor, still wearing his boots.

Frank scribbled some numbers on the calender taped to the foyer side table, opened the lockbox and took Gerard’s money when he offered it. It was a practiced routine: his mom had been asking him to do check-ins more and more as of late. It used to be his dad’s job, but, well.

Frank cleared his throat and put on his best Important Guy Voice. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr...?”

“Way,” Gerard supplied. Frank grinned and shook his hand dramatically, not letting go, just swinging it back and forth between them. Frank was probably getting covered in charcoal too.

“Way. Awesome.” He giggled. “Way awesome. Here, you can have the nice suite!” Frank tried not to look back as he dragged Gerard past the stairs and into the back of the house, because he had a feeling Gerard was just looking confused behind him. Frank knew he could come on a little strong.

“This one. Mess it up as much as you like. You have your own bathroom if you want to shower,” and Frank wasn’t wondering how soft Gerard’s hair would be if he washed it, no way. “I dunno if you’ve stayed in one of these before, but it’s basically a hotel except my mom interrogates you over breakfast and you don’t have a mini-bar.” His face fell so visibly at this that Frank almost laughed, but he caught himself. “Um, there’s a place in town, though? I can show you around tonight, after you get cleaned up. If you want. I mean, not that there’s much to see. You can visit everything in twenty minutes,” Frank started backtracking, because he had kind of just asked Gerard to go to the bar with him and implied he needed a shower _in the same sentence_. “Like, for the soul quest?” he asked feebly. Gerard’s face softened, and he covertly unclasped their hands.

“Aren’t you a little young to drink?” He asked, in lieu of an answer.

Frank’s face went red. “I’m seventeen!” he exclaimed indignantly. Gerard raised his hands defensively.

“Seventeen’s still too young to drink,” he pointed out. “Just saying.”

Oh. Well, yeah. Frank was too young to smoke, too, but that hadn’t stopped him.

“They card you, obviously,” he mumbled. It had always seemed kind of pointless, especially since the bartender knew every kid in there anyway.

Gerard looked thoughtful for a moment, though Frank didn’t see how there was anything to think about. Go or don’t go.

“Okay,” he said, and Frank must have been grinning like a madman because Gerard was half-smiling back. “But can you leave for a few minutes? I can’t shower with my clothes on. I don’t know; maybe I _could_ , but I don’t know how much good that would do.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah!” Frank said and then didn’t move. They just kind of stood there smiling at each other awkwardly for a minute before Frank got control of his body again and left.

~

He sat cross-legged on his bed, headphones jammed in his ears. They were the nice kind, too, that actually went inside your ears and blocked out sound. He’d gotten them for his birthday last year, because his mom wouldn’t let him get what he really wanted, which was a tattoo. She said it was because the parlour was too far away, because he wouldn’t take good care of it (Frank tried vehemently to prove her wrong, even going so far as to do dishes for the whole month of October without even being asked, to no avail), but he knew that it was just because she didn’t want him to get one. Frank loved his mom, but she acted about twenty years older than she actually was. Anyway, the headphones were a pretty sweet consolation prize, so he thanked her and smiled and actually used them, even if he was a little pissed.

He tapped rhythmically on the buds, enjoying the sensation behind his eyes, like a little jolt of electricity each time. It disrupted his vision, and maybe that was bad, like how you weren’t supposed to jam Q-Tips all the way in your ear but everybody did anyway. You weren’t supposed to turn the volume up as much as Frank did, either. He was starting to drift off, too, so he turned it up a little more. It was only about five thirty, but he was tired: he stayed up pretty late in the summer, sometimes playing his Gameboy, sometimes leaving quietly and just walking around town. His mom never noticed, and she probably wouldn’t care too much even if she did, because Dogwood was pretty much the safest place you could be, like, ever. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if every new neighbor they got was a member of the fucking Witness Protection program. So he wandered around, looking in peoples’ lit-up windows and almost wishing he’d get jumped just for something to do.

Frank had only ever been in one fight, in his freshman year. It was this huge sophomore with a nose big enough to become its own nation and a posse big enough to defend it. He’d called Frank a faggot right after he got this awesome red streak in his fringe, which was totally not gay, okay. And Frank got called names pretty frequently, but he had been having a bad day and it was a big deal because he was fucking proud of his hair. Anyway, he’d punched the guy in the face and broken his huge ugly nose, but then the Nose Patrol pretty much beat the shit out of him and they all got sent home. Fights in Dogwood were infrequent, so he’d been the talk of the school for literally weeks afterward. Frank had hoped that being the guy with cool hair who got in fights would score him a date, but that was probably too much to ask. He had never had much luck with girls. Maybe he was too short, or maybe everyone had a crush on him and he was just really bad at figuring it out. Either way, the closest he’d ever had to a girlfriend was this really plain girl named Sarah who had kissed him at the only party he’d ever attended that had actual beer. He’d tried to talk to her the following week, but she blew him off. Her hair was stupid anyway.

Frank was trying to come up with good reasons to stay awake when he looked up and suddenly Gerard was at the door, in two towels. Two towels, one around his waist and one slung over his shoulders, covering up his chest. Frank threw his headphones on the pillow and practically jumped to his feet. Gerard kind of went stiff at that, with his hand still on the doorknob and his hair dripping in his face. He looked... worried, almost? Frank didn’t know.

Gerard pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “I don’t have any clean clothes,” he admitted. _Oh_. Okay, clothes. Frank could absolutely help with that.

“Awesome! Well, not awesome. I mean, you can wear some of mine and I’ll wash yours tonight.” Gerard started to protest but Frank cut him off with a pair of jeans to the face. “Try those,” he said. They weren’t exactly his biggest pair, but Frank kind of missed the black jeans. He rifled through his middle drawer, searching for something suitably badass and, hopefully, suitably tight. “Do you listen to Black Flag?” He asked. Gerard shook his head and Frank gaped in mock astonishment. “Well, we’ll fix that. Here,” he said, balling up the shirt, emblazoned with the band’s logo, and catapulting that at Gerard’s head too.

“‘Kay,” Gerard said simply, and plodded off to the bathroom again. Frank considered changing too, but Gerard would notice that, wouldn’t he? He seemed like the kind of guy who noticed everything, as evidenced by the whole drawing-Frank-basically-from-memory thing, and had Frank mentioned lately how cool that was? Really fucking cool. He was mentally plotting ways to get Gerard to give him the picture when the door swung open again, no knock this time. Frank was forced to pause and stare for a second, because Gerard was wearing his clothes and his hair was still dripping all over everything. Frank really wanted to grab a towel and muss it up.  
He made a noise somewhere between ‘nng’ and Gerard’s name, motioning for him to come in. Gerard shook his hair out.

“Need a brush?” Frank asked absently. Fuck, he just did it again: the whole implying Gerard was gross thing. He wanted to apologize and emphasize that Gerard was in no way gross, and that he actually found the whole starving artist getup kind of romantic, but if he didn’t bring it up they could just act like it never happened, so he stopped himself. Also, he had just offered his hairbrush to a homeless guy. Eww.

Luckily, Gerard did gun-hands at him ( _gun hands,_ oh wow,) and tried to reach into that ubiquitous backpack without taking it off. A few moments struggle produced not only a hairbrush, but also some unidentifiable feminine beauty products, which Frank was honestly all for. He almost made an ‘and tonight we can paint our nails and talk about boys we like!’ joke, but stopped himself because Gerard probably did paint his nails. And maybe liked boys. Fuck.

Gerard preened while Frank tidied up the room and pretended to be busy, watching him out of the corner of his eye. That endeavor was quickly abandoned, though, because cleaning was stupid. He just leaned on the vanity and watched Gerard paint charcoal grey around his eyes with a steady hand. Maybe that was part of being an artist; you could put on eyeliner and not fuck it up.

“Why do you open your mouth?” Frank asked.

“Huh?”

“When you put on makeup. My mom does that too.”

Gerard bit his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t... know? Habit. It probably helps you keep your face still,” he said, turning back to the task at hand. He finished and popped his lips once, even though there was nothing actually on his lips. They both reached for the brush at the same time. “Um,” said Gerard, eyebrows raised. Frank could feel his ears getting hot. It hadn’t been intentional; his body just had a habit it doing things without him. He was about to apologize when Gerard asked:

“Do you want to do it?”

Fuck yeah, Frank wanted to do it. “Yes! Er, yeah, hang on,” he said and rushed to the bathroom, grabbing one of Gerard’s abandoned towels. He sprinted back and paused: “You have to dry it first.” Gerard pulled a face.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically. “But I’m not going to like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” he muttered, and without further ado, took the towel to Gerard’s head. His expressions in the mirror were downright hilarious; you would have thought he was being choked to death the way he scrunched all his features up, like he was trying to move them all to the center of his face. Frank giggled when he finished desecrating Gerard’s hair and tossed the towel on the bed. Gerard was trying his best to scowl, but his mouth wasn’t exactly working with him so he gave up and giggled, wiping at his eyeliner. So much for not fucking that up.

Gerard had nice hair. He obviously dyed it, as evidenced by the half-inch of brown roots growing in under the black, but it wasn’t brittle and he somehow managed to keep split ends to a minimum. Okay, so maybe Frank wasn’t exactly hard please: he liked long hair, regardless of what state it was in -- he was in the process of growing his own out, though his mom nagged him to cut it pretty much all the time and it was hard not to give in to that -- but Gerard was currently topping Frank’s List of People With Awesome Hair, solely because he let Frank play with it.

Frank tried to be gentle as he combed through Gerard’s hair, but it was a veritable rats’ nest in there. He would snag a tangle every few seconds and Gerard would bite his lip, gasping a little at the rougher ones. “Sorry, sorry!” Frank said each time, until Gerard rolled his eyes and shushed him. It only took maybe two minutes to completely brush it out, but Frank covertly set down the brush and started finger-coming from root to tip. It was almost meditative, playing with Gerard’s hair, and he couldn’t help but think he’d be cool just doing this forever. He braced his thumbs on either side of Gerard’s neck and the combing eventually devolved into rubbing small tiny circles into his scalp and feeling the damp, silky texture under his fingers. Under any other circumstances, Frank would have been thinking something along the lines of ‘is this weird? Oh god he thinks I’m being weird,” but his brain granted him a much-needed reprive by just shutting up for once. It was a moot point anyway, because when Frank started in on his temples, Gerard hummed contentedly and tipped his head back for better access, proving that if this was weird, Gerard liked it anyway. Their breathing began to sync up once Frank stopped listening to it, and fuck, Gerard smelled nice, like fruity shampoo and cherry blossoms, as opposed to the stench of garbage and sweat radiating off him before the shower. Actually, Frank didn’t really mind that either.

“Um.” Gerard cleared his throat and Frank jerked out of his trance. His face was basically buried in Gerard’s hair and oops, that was probably approaching weird right there. He left his hands cupped around Gerard’s ears and pulled back just enough to see his bemused smirk upside-down. They stared at each other for yet another long moment, but it seemed to get less awkward the more it happened.

“Sorry,” Frank said finally, and then briefly stuck his nose in Gerard’s hair again because he wasn’t that sorry. Unfortunately, he was kind of embarrassed and Frank had a bad habit of talking non-stop when he was embarrassed, which only ever made things more embarrassing. Vicious cycle.

“Yeah, I do that sometimes. The hair thing? I mean, in my defense, your shampoo is awesome, but like, my mom is always on my case for buying the five dollar stuff. She says I don’t have enough hair to make it worth the money, but then she turns around and tells me I have too much hair and should chop it all off, y’know? And what’s even wrong with a guy having long hair, anyway? Nothing. I mean, obviously, like, you have long hair so you know what I’m talking about.” Gerard was still smirking at him upside-down, but Frank showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. “And then you can do fun shit like braiding it or putting it in ponytails. I mean I said I’m trying to grow mine out, but people keep calling me gay. Like, okay, not more than usual. Yet. But it’ll get worse if I can ever get it as long as I want it, ‘cause you should see how shallow the pricks at my school are. They see a guy with long hair and they immediately think ‘hey, I bet he likes to suck dick,’ and give him shit for it. I got a red streak once and this guy called it gay, so I punched him in the face. But what I’m saying is that I like hair, okay? Like, there’s nothing wrong with that. A dude can like long hair and not be gay.” Frank stopped to take a breath, and Gerard cut in:

“I never called you gay,” he said simply, effectively stopping Frank before he dug himself any deeper.

“Oh,” Frank said, at a loss for words even after all that. He busied himself with searching for two matching socks while Gerard fixed his eyeliner again. He hadn’t even bothered with socks when he went to the Quik Mart, but wearing his shoes barefoot gave him blisters if he did it too much. Fuck, they didn’t even have to match. He could settle, as long as there were two of them.

Eventually, he found a grey one and a white one under his bed and hanging on his desk lamp, respectively -- Frank couldn’t even guess at how it got there -- and white was just a shade of grey anyway, right? So he pulled them on skated across the exposed part of the hardwood floor, over to the door. One advantage to living in such an ancient house was that there was no carpet to fray or retain spilled soymilk, and he could just slide everywhere he went, especially right after his mom had applied floor wax back when they were remodeling. Sock-skating should be an Olympic sport. Frank would kick so much ass at that.

“O-kay,” Gerard said at last, dragging the word out as he spun around twice and dismounted the office chair. “We can go if you’re ready.” Frank giggled inappropriately because Gerard was making it sound all serious, but held the door open for him anyway, gesturing after you.

~

They ended up skipping most of the town tour and heading straight to the bar, because Gerard was looking bored and he could probably live without visiting the flower shop or meeting its hilariously named manager, Mrs. Floris. On a related note, Dogwood had a fucking flower shop but no tattoo parlour: what were the punk kids supposed to do, stick rose thorns in their ears? Then again, there weren’t any punk kids. Frank used fruity shampoo, so he didn’t count.

Three Card Charlie’s was small, dingy, and not actually run by a guy named Charlie. It was usually empty, save for the occasional group of four or five old men, huddled in a booth and enshrouded in cigarette smoke. It wasn’t always the same couple of guys, either, but they might as well have been for all the thought they spared Frank. He hung out in there quite a bit, usually just drinking coke and complaining to Benny the bartender. Sometimes, especially around the holidays, groups of now-college-aged kids he used to know gather to celebrate their new-found freedom by getting completely smashed and verbally abusing anyone unlucky enough to get in their way, usually Benny. Frank always made a point to leave before they noticed him.

“Hey, Frankie,” Benny said jovially, dishrag in hand, polishing his ubiquitous Bartender Glass. Did movies show bartenders doing that because they did it in real life, or did bartenders watch movies and think ‘hey, that guy is always polishing a glass. Maybe I should do that too’? It was one of life’s great mysteries.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Rum and Coke,” Gerard answered, digging around in his backpack. Frank rolled his eyes even as Benny snickered.

“This is Gerard. He’s from out of town.”

“Belleville,” Gerard supplied, sitting up and passing Benny his ID. Frank was simultaneously grateful, because the guy was more organized than Frank had given him credit for, and uncomfortable, because Gerard was old. Maybe four years wasn’t a huge difference, but it was almost a quarter of Frank’s life to date, about a fifth of Gerard’s. And fuck, Frank had just done math for his sake. He was in deep.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Frank told Benny earnestly, “hold the rum.” It had been funny the first time he’d said it, but Frank had a Rum-and-Coke-minus-rum every time he went to Three Card Charlie’s. Whatever, it made Gerard chuckle.

They sat in silence while Benny poured their drinks. A realization was slowly dawning on Frank, like a slow motion atom bomb: Frank’s life was boring. All he really had going for him was cool hair and decent taste in music, and yeah, he could almost cook and kind of play guitar, but that was nothing compared to Gerard. Frank just wasn’t worldly, he decided. Not spontaneous. He tried for spontaneity, but the effort fell flat under the crushing fact there there was fucking nothing to do in town. No clubs, no bands, no druggies, and he couldn’t fall in with the ‘wrong crowd’ because there was no fucking wrong crowd. Yeah, Frank was probably the most interesting person in Dogwood, but that wasn’t saying much because the second most interesting person in Dogwood was seventy-eight and collected scale models of the Eiffel Tower. Frank felt like apologizing for his hometown’s complete inadequacy, but that wouldn’t do much good to keep Gerard from leaving.

Woah. Frank’s metaphorical atom bomb blew the fuck up, because that was what he was getting at, wasn’t it? He didn’t want Gerard to leave. It didn’t even make an iota of sense, because they’d just met, and Frank had never wanted any of the bed and breakfast’s other interesting patrons to stay forever. Not really. Maybe it was because Gerard was the first cool guest who was also a drifter, and pretty, and close to Frank’s age, and that thought sparked something: he could feel a revelation coming on, bubbling just beneath the surface of his mind, but he wasn’t going to rush it. Frank’s epiphanies had a habit of fizzling out when he thought about them too hard.

“...Buses into the city?” Gerard was saying, sipping his drink and tilting his head expectantly.

“Huh?” He grunted. While Frank’s head was busy exploding, Benny had passed them their drinks and sidled off to the other end of the counter, probably in search of more glasses to polish. Gerard had already downed half of his.

“I asked what the easiest route is from here to NYC. Do you have buses, or like, a train station or something?” He repeated. Frank snorted at that last part, because seriously, a train station? That was even less likely than a tattoo parlour.

“Nope,” Frank confessed. “I don’t even think you can get taxis out here. I mean, maybe if you call them, but then they’d be like three hundred bucks and not yellow. Your best bet is probably to keep hitchhiking.” He hesitated before asking his next question, because he wasn’t really sure if he wanted to know, but the curiosity would probably eat him alive soon, so Frank decided to man up. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning, probably,” said Gerard, like it wasn’t even a big deal. Frank’s heart basically sank right down to his feet and flopped around on the floor, because it was totally a big deal. He took a sip of pop to buy thinking time.

“You can stay, you know,” Frank said quietly. “I can convince Mom to keep you a few more nights. And we can feed you, and give you some of my old clothes if you need.” He was bargaining and he knew it. Gerard just smiled sadly and ducked his head to play with a frayed hole in his jeans. Frank’s jeans.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard said, and he sounded pretty damn sincere, “but I can’t.” Frank probably looked like he was about to cry or something, because Gerard hastened on: “Not ‘cause I don’t like it here, just. Like, this whole... thing,” -- he made a wide gesture that could have refered to the uneven stain on the counter or all of human history -- “it’s not about settling down. I’m not even going to settle down once I get to New York, probably. It’s about finding myself. And I just don’t think I’m going to find myself in...” He trailed off.

“Dogwood,” Frank supplied miserably. “Self-worth capitol of the world.”

“Yeah.”

The conversation fizzled out while Frank tried to compose himself and Gerard ordered another drink. He didn’t know what he was expecting, really; was Gerard supposed to achieve existential closure on demand, tyring to drink himself stupid in fucking Three Card Charlie’s? Frank couldn’t ask for that. He just had a nagging suspicion that Gerard had no idea what he was looking for either, and that whatever it was, he wouldn’t find it in New York.

“You want another Coke?” Benny asked him as he refilled Gerard’s glass. Frank shook his head, and, when Benny turned away, stole a swig of Gerard’s drink.

~

He was feeling a little better on the walk home, and admittedly it was because Gerard was getting handsy. Gerard had gotten more sociable with each subsequent rum and Coke (progressing to straight rum once his wallet started getting lighter) and actually started answering Frank’s questions around the fourth.

“Why did you leave Belleville anyway?” Frank had asked innocently enough, and Gerard’s face had fallen. He hung his head when he spoke, hair threatening to dip into his drink:

“Family problems,” he said. Frank had expected the story to end there, but after a few moments, Gerard elaborated: “I have this brother. Mikey,” and a small smile snuck across his face. “He would really like you. But anyway, we got into a fight, sort of, and I was afraid of -- he’s really fragile, okay, and I was afraid of hurting him. So I figured it’d be best for everybody if I just left.” The last sentence slurred together, like Gerard was either pretty upset or really bad at holding his liquor. Frank didn’t want to press the issue, but curiosity was nagging at the corner of his mind. What could they possibly be fighting about that was big enough for Gerard to hurt his brother over? Gerard looked up when Frank cautiously asked the same. His eyeliner was running.

“I’m,” Gerard started to answer, shifted nervously, cleared his throat. “I’m, uh. I think I’m gay, and I kind of...” he trailed off and stared into his empty glass. It was the last answer that Frank had expected, but almost a relief. Frank could deal with this, absolutely.

“It’s okay, dude,” he said, patting Gerard’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m cool with that. I mean, I’m pretty open-minded myself,” and maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but Gerard barely seemed to be listening anyway, “and I’m sure your brother will come around.” Gerard opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then he snapped it shut again.

The tone of the conversation lightened after that. Gerard started talking more openly about random shit: music, his family, his dreams of becoming a comic book artist. Once the metaphorical weight was lifted, Frank wasn’t surprised to find that Gerard had good taste in fucking everything. He rambled about French cinema for a full ten minutes, and even though Frank was pretty sure it was mostly bullshit, he couldn’t help but admire how well-versed Gerard was in the art and culture of the world: namely, more well-versed than Frank.

And so Gerard got drunk, and Frank got a little buzzed from sipping Gerard’s drink whenever he turned around, and then they tried to walk home without tripping over anything in the dusty twilight. That was a lot harder than it sounded, especially when Gerard kept bumping into him, or resting his hand on the small of Frank’s back while he talked animatedly about either The Smiths or the time he’d tried to learn to play guitar, Frank couldn’t tell.

Everything felt warm and quiet, even as the evening chill set in, and it was like the end of a sappy movie or maybe the beginning of an alien invasion, right before everything goes to shit.  
The warm feeling persisted into the house, where they whispered in case Frank’s mom was still awake, and through the hall to the back suite. Spoken words were always comfortably muffled in all the plush drapery, like the room was completely isolated from the rest of the world.

“Mm,” Gerard sighed happily, sitting on the edge of the four-post bed and toeing off his boots. “Is there water?” Frank didn’t say anything, just went to the bathroom and filled a paper cup for Gerard, watched him swallow it down, and refilled it until Gerard’s eyes focused again.

“Thanks, Frankie,” Gerard said, voice a little clearer than it had been fifteen minutes ago.

“Sure thing,” Frank said absently. “Do you want some Advil too?” Gerard nodded, so Frank got him a few pills and took one himself, preemptively. Gerard took his with no water and a practiced hand, and Frank tried not to think too hard about the implications. Instead, he sidled over to the turntable and sifted through the LPs in the drawer below. Frank kept about a quarter of his rather extensive music collection in the back suite, in a locking drawer that he had left conspicuously unlocked in hope that Gerard would open it. He liked relaxing in the suite when it was empty, listening to records and thinking of all people who had reclined in the same bed, the places they’d been, the people they’d known who Frank would never meet. He turned the volume down to a low hum and gently lowered the needle. The room was filled with the quiet, potentially unfitting tones of _My War_.

“What’s it like?” Frank asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Gerard. “Traveling the way you do, with no... obligations. Just going wherever you want.”

Gerard met Frank’s eyes and bit his lip, like he was really giving the question some thought. Frank’s breath caught in his chest.

“Lonely,” Gerard admitted.

Frank kissed him. He was chaste and gentle, just savoring the feel of Gerard under under his lips, soft and warm and so completely alive. He pulled back after a long moment and their eyes met. Gerard smiled brilliantly; how he’d gone his entire life without Gerard’s smile to light his way, Frank would never know.

Okay, that was kind of fucking sappy and maybe Frank was more drunk than previously assumed, but he wasn’t going to let it bother him, because Gerard was looking at him with something akin to hunger, cliched as it may sound. Frank stood up to close the door, maintaining some semblance of eye contact the whole way so that Gerard would know that he wasn’t being abandoned, and when he sprawled out on the bed again, Gerard immediately crawled on top of him. Frank laced his fingers in that sleek, dark hair and pulled him down for another kiss, long and slow.

Then Gerard did this really impressive thing where he kind of parted Frank’s lips with his own and ran his tongue across Frank’s teeth, teasing. Frank just melted at that, opening his mouth for easy access and letting his hands slip down to the nape of Gerard’s neck. Forget brushing Gerard’s hair, this was what he wanted to do for the rest of his natural life.

Technically, this was Frank’s fourth kiss ever. There was Jamie Mendel, his twenty minute second-grade girlfriend: Frank thought he was a player back in second grade, when girls were mostly icky but sometimes in a good way. Hannah Miller had kissed him on a dare in his first year of middle school. They spent the rest of the year avoiding each other’s eyes, or rather, Frank avoided her eyes while she whispered to her friends by the lockers. The third, of course, was Sarah the Drunk Girl, whose last name was not at the forefront of Frank’s mind. That spot was currently occupied by his fourth kiss ever, Gerard Motherfucking Way.

Gerard Motherfucking Way chose that exact moment to roll them over, lips still connected, in some kind of crazy kissing-acrobatics thing, and Frank decided that the other three kisses didn’t count.

“Are we gonna have sex now?” Frank panted, tactful as ever, trying his best to talk and bite Gerard’s lip at the same time. This made Gerard pull away and consider the question, and Frank had to giggle because he was so goddamned earnest, like, all the time.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Um,” Frank began, “probably? Yes. I haven’t, though. Before.” Fuck, they were the worst at pillow talk. The worst. Part of it probably stemmed from the fact that Gerard was still ridiculously drunk, but Frank had a sneaking suspicion that it was mostly because they were just that awkward.

“Okay. I’m going to do something, so just tell me if you don’t like it,” Gerard instructed, clinical tone dampened by the flush high in his cheeks. Frank was pretty sure he knew what was coming next, because he was a normal kid and he watched porn, but that didn’t stop his stomach from fluttering with anticipation as he rolled off Gerard and onto the plush comforter. He fumbled with his shirt while Gerard fumbled with his zipper. Even in his intoxicated state, Gerard was faster at getting people undressed. When he popped the button and helped Frank shimmy out of his boxers, Frank straight up forgot about the shirt in favor of fisting his hands in Gerard’s hair again.

“Mm,” Gerard hummed appreciatively. Then, before Frank could fully wrap his head around the situation, his dick was in Gerard’s face and Gerard was smirking up at him with a kind of controlled confidence that didn’t look like it belonged to him. He pouted his lips and breathed hotly against the head, making Frank’s entire body shudder. There was no way in hell he was going to last, not when the mere sight of Gerard’s lips wrapped around him nearly set Frank off.  
It started slow and, to Frank’s dismay, stayed slow. Gerard sucked the head into his mouth, laving his tongue across the underside, and gripped the shaft. He wouldn’t really move, though, no matter how much Frank thrust into his hand: he just pulled back with that incessant smirk and waited for Frank to calm down.

“Gera-ard,” he whined, trying desperately to get some sort of leverage against the mattress and only succeeding in further rumpling the covers.

“You can call me Gee if two syllables gets to be too much,” he drawled. Frank tugged his hair lightly.

“Stop fucking teasing!”

Suddenly, Gerard’s eyes went dark. Frank stilled, like something was pressing him down, suffocating him with the sheer intensity of it all.

“Okay,” Gerard said, voice much too smooth for a guy who had literally just been sucking dick, “I’ll stop teasing, you stop holding back.” Frank didn’t know what he meant by that but nodded helplessly just the same.

~

Gerard was pleasantly surprised to discover that Frank’s vocabulary took a turn for the absolutely filthy when he was getting sucked off.

“Oh shit, I swear your mouth was made for my cock. Fucking -- ah -- fucking lock and key thing going on here,” he muttered, and Gerard groaned his agreement. It was a cycle of encouragement: Frank kept up his constant stream of awkward, well-meaning dirty talk, and Gerard made happy noises below him.

Happy because if he was being completely honest with himself, Gerard genuinely enjoyed sucking dick. It was an emotional thing, unsurprisingly: he liked the feeling of completely giving himself over, letting his partner use him for selfish purposes. Being objectified. That was maybe just a little bit strange, considering he had been the one doing the objectification mere days ago, even if it felt like another life entirely. He had this habit of wrapping himself in a concept completely, focusing in on it and examining it from every angle, so maybe it was just the concept of ownership that got him off, regardless of the power dynamic.

It was also the feeling of Frank on his tongue, firm and heavy, and the way he just let himself go and stopped thinking about Gerard, about making it good, just fucked into his mouth with an intense, uneven passion. The head of his cock would bump against the back of Gerard’s throat every few seconds, forcing him to steady his breathing even as his throat constricted. It made his heart stop each time. Frank seemed to like that, the way Gerard’s muscles clenched involuntarily, so he pushed it, pulled Gerard closer by his hair. In turn, he encouraged Frank to do what he wanted and tried to keep up. Each stolen breath felt like being born again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Frank gritted out through clenched teeth and tightened his grip in Gerard’s hair. “Fuck, Gee.”

And oh, the nickname definitely did something for him. _“Gee, it hurts,”_ his brain supplied in Mikey’s voice; he felt a sharp stab of guilt even as his dick twitched at the memory, fuzzy around the edges through forced suppression. He felt his throat clench and tried to pull back an inch or so, but Frank wasn’t having any of that.

“Motherfucker, ah, don’t you dare stop now,” he grunted. He seemed to get bolder the more Gerard egged him on, and okay, maybe that was bound to backfire on Gerard at some point, but right now being held down was more than fine in his book. He returned to the task with determination, trying desperately to push the images of Mikey out of his mind, because as much as he wanted this to be Mikey holding him down and fucking his mouth, it wasn’t. It was Frank, and that was really better for everybody involved. And Gerard did like Frank: he was short and feisty and adorable, but most of all he was safe, because he was very distinctly not Gerard’s brother.

Frank stopped talking coherently in favor of a series of increasingly high-pitched ‘ah’s and tugged Gerard’s hair in warning. Gerard pulled back and opened wide, partially because that’s what the chicks in porn did and partially because he really liked the idea of Frank’s come on his face.

“Gee,” Frank moaned, and that was it: he came, arching off the bed in a graceful curve, thighs trembling with the effort of supporting his weight. Gerard pumped him through it, and even when he finished, Frank remained tense for another fifteen seconds at least, like he was trying to prolong the sensation by not moving. The hard lines of his abdomen were strangely beautiful, peeking through under the shirt still bunched around his shoulders. When their eyes finally met, Frank looked to be in complete awe -- Gerard belatedly realized that the evidence was still dripping down his chin, mostly in his mouth, but some had caught the stray locks of hair hanging in his face. Frank obviously had a thing for his hair, so it was really no surprise when he reached down and combed his fingers through it, making the rest of Gerard’s hairline sticky. He’d have to wash it again in the morning, but the look on Frank’s face was absolutely worth it. Gerard made a small noise and swallowed obediently.

Only then did he realize that he was still wearing pants -- _Frank’s pants_ , he giggled mentally -- and that was a problem, so he tried frantically to get them off, cursing whoever invented button flies. Finally he managed to wrap a hand around himself. It was almost embarrassing that he was so close to finishing and Frank hadn’t even touched him yet, but the whole stunt with his hair had Gerard panting already, as if giving blowjobs wasn’t enough of a turn-on.

Frank just sat there and watched in rapt attention as Gerard jerked himself off, and somehow that was hotter than if he’d tried to help. Gerard tried his best to maintain eye contact and project his thoughts: namely, _thank you; I needed that_ , but without the freaky sibling-telepathy that he and Mikey shared, Frank probably didn’t get the message. That was okay, though: there was no way he missed the intensity, because he mirrored it right back.

One, two, three frantic strokes had Gerard silently biting his lip and coming all over his fist.  
He slumped bonelessly against Frank’s side, sighing when he felt fingers lace through his hair, gently this time. Gerard meant to clean them both up, but all he managed to do was tug the covers over his head before they were both asleep.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

The suite was so beautifully, mind-numbingly silent that when Gerard woke up for the first time, it felt less real than his dream. He drifted in and out of post-sleep drowsiness. Waking up slowly was truly a luxury -- the past few days had been a fog of car-ride naps punctuated by jarring stops. He was becoming uncomfortably acquainted with the feeling of stumbling out of someone else’s van half asleep at some rest stop, trying to prepare himself mentally for another hour of attempting to bum a ride. Without caffeine. Also, it turned out that people who picked up hitchhikers were not generally the best company: there had been quite a few mohawks and facial piercings so far, and Gerard didn't have anything _against_ people like that, but those were the safe rides. Freaky people looked normal, and in his business-week on the road had seen various degrees of freaky.

On the tame end of the spectrum, there was a guy, late thirties, who had fucked someone tha Gerard assumed was his girlfriend in the passenger seat of his tiny sedan while Gerard pretended to sleep in the back. The ride had been uncomfortable after that, especially since said girlfriend kept popping gum and raking her chipped pink nails up the guys thigh at red lights.

On the opposite end, the third guy who had picked him up stopped for gas somewhere just off the highway. Gerard had a splitting headache, that being his second day without caffeine of any sort, so he searched the guy’s glove box while he was inside paying, intending to grab some Advil and be done with it. He admitted he was snooping, but he was convinced that his head would literally explode if he wasn’t medicated soon, so he’d risked a guilty conscience over brain matter spattered on the ceiling.

He didn’t find painkillers, though: the glove box was literally stuffed with -- and he still blanched at the thought -- bricks of cocaine, packed like so many disgusting canned fish into the tiny space. Thousands of dollars worth, at least -- he didn’t fucking know; he’d never tried to buy the stuff -- and the guy had to be a dealer, because Gerard was pretty sure it was impossible for one man to snort all of that, even if he had his whole life to do it. Gerard made an excuse to get off at that stop.

So waking up at Frank’s place was like fucking Christmas. It was warm and slow and he was comfortable and well rested. A quick glance to the bedside alarm revealed that it was only eleven thirty; he could probably sleep for a full twenty-four hours if the curtain was closed, but Gerard woke up with the sun, always had, and somebody had obviously opened said curtains to let it in sometime in the recent past. He briefly missed the dark sanctity of his family’s basement.

After blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he began to fully process where he was, how he got there. Memories of the previous night seeped up through the cracks in his thoughts and wow, he’d gotten laid. His stomach flipped at the thought and cold tendrils of guilt radiated out from his spine: he had gotten laid, sort of, if blowjobs even counted, and he really didn’t know how to feel about that. One one hand, it was amazing and it was what he needed, and the feeling of tugging fingers still lingered, over-sensitive on his scalp. On the other, he felt like he had taken advantage of Frank in every sense of the word.

  
The memory of the grand finale hit him and he realized that someone had cleaned him up, probably Frank. Hopefully Frank, because he would just die if Frank’s mom had walked in to find them in bed together with her son’s come in his hair. She wouldn’t, he convinced himself: it was a business after all, and entering guests’ rooms unprovoked was a violation of privacy. Sleeping with said guests was probably a violation of privacy too, but whatever.

He sighed and stretched languidly, arching his back and throwing his arms above his head, listening to each vertebra crack individually. God, it felt good to have space again.

He caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye: just a glint of silver on the pillow where Frank should have been. Upon closer inspection, it revealed itself to be a pewter platter -- actually pewter; Gerard didn’t know they even made those anymore -- atop which sat a glass of orange juice and a pyramid of carefully-arranged shortbread cookies. He grinned like a fucking school kid. _Frank made him cookies_ , and fuck, that was the sappiest thing ever and he _loved_ it.

“Oh my God,” he mumbled to himself, and then he did it again because he liked the muffled sound of his own voice in the heavily insulated room. They were good cookies, too. Probably ninety-nine percent butter, but he ate half of them anyway, stuffing the last few in the designated food Ziploc in his bag.

Gerard got out of bed, eventually, after a few more minutes of stretching and maybe caressing his own body, basking in the afterglow and remembering the places where Frank had touched his skin. He immediately realized that his clothes were gone. He’d thrown the two-and-a-half outfits that he currently owned on the floor by the bathroom; in their place was a set of neatly folded jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. Not his, but that was more than okay. Frank had mentioned something about washing his clothes. He tugged them on along with the underwear from the previous night, still halfway under the bed and probably disgusting. That was okay too, because it was a small price to pay for clean clothes. He’d need more for the road, but he could probably steal Frank’s if worst came to worst.

The search for makeup was quickly abandoned when he realized that his beauty supplies were still sitting in front of the vanity. There was a tiny mirror next to the bed stand, so he gave himself a quick once-over and, unsurprisingly, wasn’t happy with the results: he had dark crescents under his eyes and the worst case of Sex Hair he’d ever seen. Seriously, he couldn’t go to a fucking brothel in his current state, let alone meet Frank’s mom.

He finger-combed it as best he could in the bathroom mirror, used water to untangle the particularly... conspicuous bits, and steeled himself. He wasn’t scared of meeting Frank’s mom per se, but it was going to be awkward. That was unavoidable, he reminded himself, when he had just slept with her son. The realization gave him chills every time.

He didn't get to fully take in Frank’s house the first time he saw it, mainly because he was drunk off his ass but partially because Frank was hanging off his arm at that point. It was pretty classy for a small-town place: plush armchairs in the sitting room and mahogany in the foyer, like the kind of shit you saw in interior design magazines. His room seemed to be the only one with muffled acoustics, probably because Frank and his mom didn’t want to hear honeymooning couples screwing while they were trying to sleep. He laughed, then, because nobody in their right mind would honeymoon in Dogwood, NJ and because Frank seemed like the type who would want to hear them screwing if they did. In all honesty, he and Frank were probably the closest to a honeymoon the room would ever see.

Loud sex aside, the rest of the house was surprisingly echoy. Indistinguishable voices made themselves known from somewhere around the corner, mingling with the clicking of silverware and what was undoubtedly more Black Flag on the stereo. Frank was lucky that his mom put up with that: the Ways’ philosophy on music was that their children could listen to whatever they liked as long as it was within the confines of their own rooms.

Gerard waited for a lull in the conversation before he entered the dining room, feeling like he was interrupting something sacred. He wasn’t. Frank was just tidying up the dishes and humming along absently while his mom worked her way through the stack of papers next to her coffee.

“Hey,” he said, brushing hair out of his face in a nervous habit.

Frank looked up and fucking beamed, like Gerard was the best thing in the entire world, better than zombie flicks and hot coffee and the first drag of a cigarette on a freezing January morning. Frank was gone, fucking head over heels, and he could tell in one glance. It made him feel kind of sick and ecstatic all at once, because there was no way Gerard was good for the kid, but that possessive streak was creeping up on him again. It was obvious that Frank was his in much the same way Mikey had been his, maybe still was, and fuck, couldn’t Gerard have sex with someone without _owning_ them?

Frank’s smile faltered for just a moment. “You okay?” He asked tentatively. Gerard’s thoughts must have been written across his face clear as day; he felt so goddamn vulnerable, but he covered it up.

“Yeah, I’m awesome. Is there coffee?”

There was indeed coffee, and his smooth change of subject earned him a cup and slice of apple pie on a delicate china plate. Apple pie, seriously. These guys were really running with the quaint country thing, and it was probably making Gerard fat, but whatever. Apple pie!

Frank’s mom only looked up when he finished his pie and was halfway through his second cup of coffee. She reminded him of a schoolteacher, kind of. Maybe the cool kind of teacher who let you eat in class and take twenty minute bathroom breaks, but a teacher nonetheless. He fidgeted under her shrewd gaze.

“Frankie tells me you’re travelling,” she said finally.

“Don’t call me Frankie,” he stage-whispered beside her, eliciting a snort from Gerard. He made a mental note to use the nickname whenever possible.

“Yes ma’am,” Gerard answered, wondering if she was big on formality and deciding to play it safe. “I’m from Belleville,” he added, but her expression didn’t change; she just peered at him steadily over her paper. It was actually a nice change of pace: most conversations involving his hometown quickly devolved into a self-serving mess of ‘do you know such-and-such‘ or ‘I went to high-school with him,’ and it got old incredibly fast. Frank’s mom did not appear to know anybody from Belleville, and therefore did not give a shit about Gerard’s stupid town.

“Lovely,” she said, and while Gerard was busy searching the word for trace amounts of sarcasm, Frank topped off his coffee. Detecting none, he continued on unsteady footing:

“I’m Gerard Way,” he said, voice tipping up at the end of the sentence like he was unsure of himself. _I’m Gerard Way, probably?_ He got the feeling that Frank had already told his mom that too, and it made him just a bit uncomfortable to imagine Frank talking about him. Gushing over him, no doubt.

“Linda Iero,” she shot back. “Pleasure’s mine.” She returned to her papers. Gerard got the feeling that this wasn’t normal morning discourse, that Frank had already told Mrs. Iero his life’s story, up to and hopefully not including the sex. Maybe he was dwelling on it, but he was genuinely worried because Frank kind of seemed like the kind of guy who would mention it casually in conversation.

The rest of breakfast was tense in comparison to his and Frank’s easy back-and-forth, and it felt like nothing got resolved. Worse than that, it felt like there was something that needed resolution in the first place: some invisible tension between the three of them. Finally, Gerard couldn’t take it.

“I’m heading to New York City,” he started. “This morning. Is there a bus or something around here?” He didn’t expect Mrs. Iero’s answer to be any different than her son’s, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the way Frank’s face fell when he mentioned it, but he had to say something. Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave: Frank seemed really cool, and Gerard didn’t want to be one of Those Guys who met people at parties and in bars, and, as Mikey was fond of saying, ‘hit it and quit it’, but he just couldn’t afford another night. Plus, Frank seemed pretty heartbroken already; egging him on for another day wasn’t going to help that cause. How many people had missed him once he’d left, Gerard wondered? Cocaine guy probably didn’t, and that overly-affectionate couple sure as hell needed their space, but what about the other people in his sketchpad? The ones he’d met in rest stops and the ones who’d driven him around the past few days.

An old woman who bought him dinner at one point. She drove him a short couple of miles from some town to the interstate and took him to a Denny’s at the exit, bought him eggs and a bottomless pot of coffee. Her name was Martha, he remembered, and she had told him her whole life’s story for lack of anything better to do: she was an accountant for most of her life, never married, never had kids. She lived by herself in a condo, though her niece was trying to put her in a nursing home. She’d taken up photography even though her vision was going. She didn’t stop talking even when Gerard started crying silently into his coffee, blamed it on sleep deprivation, like she knew exactly what he was feeling and that it would pass. Gerard almost teared up again at the memory. He was sure that Martha missed him. Mikey probably missed him, at least at first, though Gerard hoped he had gotten over it for his own sake, and now here he was, abandoning somebody else.

“There’s a bus that’ll take you a few miles down the road, to Worthington. You’ll probably have more luck finding a car there,” she said, much to his surprise. “You are looking for a car, right?” And there was that teacher vibe again, like Gerard had _better_ be looking for a car, or Mrs. Iero was going to fuck some shit up.

“Maybe?” He compromised. “Hitchhiking has worked for me so far. But yeah, if I can find a car, that would be great.” Not that he could afford to rent it. Or pay for gas. He could barely pay for food as it was, and the granola bar supply in his bag was dwindling fast. “By the way, did somebody take my clothes this morning?” It seemed like the entire conversation was one big series of subject changes.

Frank bit his lip, still smiling. “I washed them for you. Should be in the dryer now. Back hall,” he said, gesturing to the east end of the house. “Do you need help finding it?”

Gerard wasn’t going to get lost on the way to Frank’s fucking laundry room, but he wasn’t about to turn down a few moments alone, either. Plus, the way Frank kept opening his mouth and swallowing his words again made it obvious that he had something important to say. Probably something he couldn’t say in front of his mom.

“Sure,” Gerard answered and threw back the rest of his coffee in a motion unintentionally reminiscent of throwing back shots. Maybe he could get drunk off Columbia’s finest if he just tried hard enough.

It turned out that it was literally impossible for Gerard to get lost on the way to the laundry room, because there was only one hallway leading to that wing of the house and only one door at the end of said hallway that wasn’t locked. He wondered if the locked ones even went anywhere; old houses were supposed to have doors to nowhere sometimes, right? It was a pretty cool concept. Gerard briefly wished he could somehow translate that into a drawing, just something to get it out of his head and on paper, but doors were boring to draw and his medium didn’t exactly lend itself to abstraction. Maybe it did. Maybe Gerard was just bad at abstraction.

“You okay?” Frank asked, already fishing around in the dryer. “Awfully quiet this morning.” Gerard had been pretty quiet since they first met, but maybe you were supposed to open up to a person once you’d gotten up close and personal with their dick. He didn’t voice this assessment.

Gerard took the load of laundry (if you could even call four shirts and two pairs of jeans a load of laundry) and held it close against his chest, trying to absorb some of the residual dryer-warmth. He was suddenly cold all over, shaking just a little bit. Probably the coffee, he reasoned. “Just thinking,” he said, and fuck, if Gerard was going to apologize, now was the time. “Listen, man. I’m uh,” shit, what was he supposed to say? ‘Sorry for mooching off your mom and then blowing you and pretending you were my brother’? He didn’t think that would go over too well.

He settled on “I’m sorry. For, y’know... taking advantage of you.” That was good. Gerard wasn’t a professional apologizer or anything, but that was a good one.

Frank didn’t seem to think so. He bit the inside of his cheek and scowled. “You didn’t take advantage of me,” he insisted. It seemed like people had been telling Gerard that a lot lately. "Maybe I took advantage of you. You didn’t even get a fucking handjob out of the deal.” He smiled in disbelief. Seriously? Frank was worried about _reciprocating_?

“No, fuck. You didn’t take advantage of me. Stop beating yourself up.” He said it so casually, like _Gerard_ was the blushing virgin.

“I can’t,” Gerard whined: if there was anything he was good at, it was beating himself up about things.

Frank was leaning against the washing machine, bare feet slipping against the linoleum floor when it switched cycles jerkily. Everything smelled like bleach.

“Fine then. Make it up to me,” said Frank, his voice dropping dangerously low. The kid was fucking intimidating, especially considering he couldn’t be taller than 5’3”. _Make it up to me._ Gerard’s mind, which had been minding its own business up to that point, immediately tripped over it’s own metaphorical shoelaces and fell straight into the gutter, where it would have remained had Frank not continued: “You’re leaving this morning, right?” And it wasn't a question he wanted to be answered. “Let me come with you.”

Gerard froze. What?

Seriously, _what?_ He must have been gaping like a goddamn fish, because Frank rolled his eyes and hoisted himself easily onto the washing machine, putting him at eye level. Gerard stepped closer without realizing it.

“Dogwood is shitty, okay? You’ve been here for like a day and you can see that. We have one band, Gerard. One band, and they only play at the old-folks’ home.” He scowled seriously when he said this, because apparently Dogwood’s band-of-octogenarians was morally offensive to Frank. “And don’t think it’s because I’m fucking, I don’t know, clingy or something. You don’t have to be my _boyfriend_ , just let me tag along. I’ve wanted to leave this town and see the world since I was _born_.”

Gerard could see where he was coming from; he really could, because he had felt the same way about Belleville for most of his life. The thing was, he’d waited until after graduation to act on those rebellious impulses. He sighed, because he really didn’t want to say no, but it was okay if Gerard got shanked in a truck-stop bathroom. Frank had his whole life ahead of him. “You have to go to school, Frankie,” and oops, the nickname just kind of slipped out and it probably wasn’t helping him sound less condescending, “and then college, and then get a job. You may think you want to end up a loser like me, but you don’t. You really don't. Plus, what would your mom say?”

“I can make her say yes,” Frank gritted out. “I have a fucking cousin in New York; she can take me home. I have my own money. And I mean, I graduate. Fucking _done_. She can’t legally keep me here if I want to leave.” He was really pleading, eyes welling up with angry tears. He didn’t let them out, though, probably because he had some fucking self control, unlike Gerard.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard said. He really meant it, too, and -- oh fuck, Frank, _don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.  
_  
Frank didn’t cry, just kicked the washing machine with enough force to dent the flimsy metal and pushed past Gerard, into the rest of the house, probably already climbing the stairs to his room. Gerard felt like the lowest piece of shit on the entire planet.

Resignedly, he carried his clothes to the guest room and stuffed them in his bag. The inevitable hangover was hitting him full-force now, pounding on the inside of his skull with a million tiny fists. Everything was so fucking bright. He wished he’d packed sunglasses. Mrs. Iero gave him directions to the bus stop, within walking distance, and a withering glare. He wanted to apologize to her too, but that hadn’t really helped thusfar. He wanted to say goodbye to Frank, but that would only fuck things up more. Gerard held the heavy oak door so that it wouldn’t slam on his way out.

~

It felt like Gerard had spent most of his life waiting at bus stops.

He and Mikey rode the bus to school every morning for ten years. Gerard remembered Mikey’s first day of first grade with the kind of stunning clarity that only comes from replaying a scenario in your head hundreds of times: Mikey had been nervous. Not throwing-up-in-the-school-bathroom nervous, like Gerard had been on his first day of high-school, but nervous enough to repack his Ninja Turtle backpack three times before he’d been willing to leave. His parents had been very adamant that Mikey carry said bag by himself, so naturally Gerard had taken it for him the second they turned the corner at the end of the street. They sat together, Mikey squeezing Gerard’s hand hard enough to hurt, concealed between the two of them, while Gerard tried to assure him that school really wasn’t that bad. It was hard, because for him, school really was that bad, and he had gotten his head dunked in the toilet in second grade, way before dunking peoples’ heads in toilets was cool.

Mikey came home no worse for wear, complaining only that snack time was too short for him to finish his peanut butter and honey sandwich. Gerard pointed out that sandwiches weren’t really snacks, but Mikey just stuck his tongue out in the elementary school version of a middle finger.

There was a brief period in middle school when Mikey stopped sitting with him on the bus. Gerard had just dyed his hair black, making him a target for ridicule, and the older kids gave Mikey shit for hanging out with him. That week, sitting alone and drawing fantasy worlds in his sketchbook in the mornings, stuck out like a sore thumb in his mind. More than sore, like somebody had grabbed a hammer and gone fucking crazy on that thing. Gerard almost cut all his hair off, one night, with their mom’s kitchen shears, sitting in the bathtub, but his brother had heard him crying from the next room. Mikey had to bodily rip the shears from his hands and hide them, which didn’t require a huge effort even though Mikey was nearly half his size. That night, after a year-long hiatus, they slept in the same bed together, Gerard in Mikey’s since his own was covered in dirty clothes. He curled up against the wall with his little brother pressed lightly against his back, comforting just in his presence. They sat together on the bus the next morning but didn’t stop sleeping in Mikey’s bed until Gerard graduated.

The bus that pulled up presently was neither yellow nor full of screaming children, though he found himself almost wishing it was. This one was decrepit, nearly empty, and had seats facing each other in the front and unoccupied, elevated rows in the back. Gerard levered himself up the single, ridiculously steep step with one hand on the rail and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. The whole place smelled like onions, which was literally the last thing he expected a bus to smell like. This was going to be a fun half hour.

He payed the required dollar ten, exact change at the ready, and the driver nodded -- he looked exactly like the old guy who had driven he and Mikey to school, too, which was frankly disturbing -- and Gerard took his seat as the thing lurched into motion. He readjusted his bag under his seat, took a quick look around, and his heart sank.

Logic dictated the the person seated across from him was not Frank, couldn’t be Frank, because Frank was supposed to be in his room crying over love lost or some shit like that, but apparently logic didn’t have any sway in a universe where people had bricks of coke in their glove-boxes and Gerard could almost-fuck his brother and then escape to New York. The person who couldn’t be Frank but looked just like him was staring at him earnestly and eating what appeared to be potato chip rings out of a blue bag, also earnestly. Gerard gaped while the bus bounced him around in his seat, and maybe-Frank continued shoving the things in his mouth by the handful.

After about a minute of stunned silence, all Gerard could manage to say was, “What the fuck are you eating?” Frank slowly lowered his bag, placed it on the seat, and, with a straight face, maintaining eye contact, spoke:

“Funyuns.”

They gazed at each other for about five seconds, and then both dissolved into hysterical laughter at the exact same moment.

“Are you fucking serious?” Gerard choked out when he could finally breath again, almost crying from confusion and frustration, and Frank was still doubled over across from him, looking like he was trying to perform the Heimlich on himself. “What the hell are you doing here? Like, besides eating goddamn Funyuns like it’s the most serious thing in the world,” he spluttered. “Those things taste like fucking cat piss!” His indignation only made Frank laugh harder, and he was beginning to wonder if the kid was still breathing when Frank unfolded himself, grinned up at him.

“I’m coming with you!”

Gerard’s voice was about four octaves higher than usual. “How?” was all he could manage.

Frank took several slow, deep breaths to calm down and balled up his Funyuns bag. He aimed for the trash can up front but missed both that and the bus driver’s head by a few inches. A long moment passed during which they both bit their nails and didn’t speak, though it wasn’t a habit Gerard had ever struggled with and he was pretty sure Frank never had either. Finally, an explanation:

“There’s a stop before my house too. I, uh, grabbed my bag and ran there, ‘cause I knew you were going to leave. Lucky we both ended up on this bus.” He fidgeted some more and groped the seat beside him in search of the chips, sighing audibly when he realised they were gone. “I kind of packed this morning,” he admitted. Gerard was just about to object, but Frank must have sensed it because he cut him off preemptively: “I know you didn’t want me to come, but here I am. And if you won’t let me travel with you, fine: I’ll just do it by myself. I’m not going home.” He crossed his arms, the picture of teenage defiance. Gerard didn’t say anything for a long couple of minutes, so Frank sighed and tugged his bag across the isle, sitting next to him, half in his seat.

He wanted to object. Okay, he didn’t _want_ to object, but he felt like it was his duty to atone for being a bad influence. He felt morally compelled to object. The problem was, Frank had a solid defense: either they travelled together and Gerard was responsible for him, maybe had an outlet for certain carnal urges as a bonus, or Frank continued alone and Gerard had to spend the rest of his life wondering if the kid ever made it back to his mom.

“What did your mom say about this?” he asked, resisting the urge to rest his hand on Frank’s thigh. Too comforting. Gerard had a problem with that.

“Yes! I mean, I think she knows I’m probably not going to college anyway.”

Gerard looked on skeptically. “Really? You didn’t just run away? Because if I have a search party on my ass, so help me God--”

“I didn’t run away! I told her I was leaving!” And Frank’s hand was on his face for emphasis, turning Gerard’s head so their eyes met. “I didn’t run away,” he hissed, lips mere centimeters from Gerard’s ear. That elicited a full-body shudder, and it was all he could do not to pin Frank to the seat, fucking kiss him senseless in front of the goddamn bus driver and the two old ladies in the back. It was like being a teenager all over again, this past week. He could barely go a minute without thinking about Mikey, and thinking of Mikey had become synonymous with thinking about sex as of late. And now here was Frank, who he was sure would _absolutely_ ride his dick right fucking now if he just said the word, and it was beginning to seem less and less important that he divert his attention.

Gerard caved and slid a hand up Frank’s thigh, relishing the small smile that spread across his face and lit up the dingy compartment. He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe the thing about Mrs. Iero, but there was no way he could give up that fucking stupid, gorgeous, ridiculously excited ball of energy to his left. It was selfish, but whatever. Frank had brought it upon himself.

They spent the remainder of the bus ride mending whatever relationship they had with heads pressed together and one of Gerard’s earbuds in Frank’s ear. They mumbled along to the songs they both knew, which was about half of them, held hands conspicuously. Whatever. It wasn’t like the old ladies could see that far anyway.

~

They were ushered off the bus and straight into the only truck stop in Worthington. It turned out that Worthington was basically just a truck stop, maybe some suburbs and a school a mile up the road. Still, it was right on the interstate, so they had a much better chance of finding a ride there than Dogwood.

“Can I get more Funyuns?” Frank asked as soon as they were on the sidewalk again. Gerard raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck no, they make your breath smell awful. Plus, you need to be saving your money for real food.”

“Fuck you, man! What do you have against Funyuns?” The fact that this was the most indignant as he’d ever seen Frank made Gerard chuckle despite himself.

“You can buy some goddamn mouthwash if you want,” he said. Frank raised his fists in what he hoped was mock-fury.

“Don’t test me, motherfucker. I will fight you. In the face.”

Gerard snorted. “I don’t doubt that.”

Frank bought ginger ale in the end, which was comparatively better than Funyuns only in that it made Gerard want to make out with him again. Frank obviously shared this sentiment, because as soon as they checked out, Gerard found himself being dragged bodily into the bathroom.

“I need your hand in my pants  _right now_ ,” Frank hissed in his ear, locking the door of the single-person room without letting go of him. Gerard could barely believe his luck: it was like he’d opened the flood gates and released some tidal wave of sexual energy. He wouldn’t have guessed from just looking at him, but Frank was pretty goddamn assertive. Not afraid to tell you what he wanted, usually by cursing as much as possible.

Gerard didn’t answer, couldn’t answer with that hot breath in his ear. He was being pinned to the back of the door while Frank attacked his neck with lips and teeth, trying unsuccessfully to shove a hand down Gerard’s pants without looking up or unbuttoning them first. Gerard rolled his eyes and made quick work of his zipper and slightly slower work of Frank’s stupid goddamn fucking button-fly.

They had to separate while Frank wiggled out of his jeans, giving up when he got them below his knees, and damn, the kid was bendy -- Gerard’s mind immediately filled with possible scenarios in which he could use that to his advantage: Frank, legs behind his head, panting as Gerard fucked him. Spread-eagle on the floor, back arched because he couldn’t _not_ beg for it. And that only made him imagine Frank begging for it. It was an incredibly appealing image.

There was no time for that at the moment, though, because Frank was already palming him through his underwear, providing enough friction to tease but not nearly enough to be satisfying.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he gritted out, grinding shamelessly against Gerard’s thigh. Gerard got the message and managed to yank down both pairs of briefs in one fell swoop, leaving them pressed together with Frank’s dick leaking against Gerard’s hipbone and both of them too tangled up to move more than a few inches in any given direction. It was an exhilarating feeling, being trapped, even if it was only by one of Frank’s hands on his wrist and the flimsy undergarments restricting movement in his legs.

Gerard spit on his hand and grabbed Frank’s cock with no preamble, stroking rough and possessive, and Frank played right into it: he leaned his head against Gerard’s shoulder and panted without reserve. He was fucking writhing and grinding his tiny little hips against Gerard’s hand, giving off a strong impression of fragility even though Gerard was technically the one being pinned down.

“Shit, Gee, so fucking good,” he whispered, jerking Gerard off with neither rhythm nor finesse, acting for all the world like he would die without the wet slide of skin against skin to keep him grounded. Every word that fell from his lips sent a hot flash of pleasure up Gerard’s spine. He realized, even in his rapidly-deteriorating mental state that he _liked_ it when Frank talked dirty, like, a lot. And that was a mutually beneficial thing, because once he was over the initial shock of _woah_ , rest-stop sex, Frank flat out refused to shut up.

“Just like that, _fuck_ , you’re amazing. You have no idea what I wanna do to you once we have a room -- ah -- what I want you to do to me.” Gerard had some pretty good ideas concerning what he was going to do to Frank once they had a bed and some privacy, but he was in no state to voice them. “I want you to fuck me, Gerard,” and where the serious intonation of his name would have made Gerard cringe coming from anyone else, Frank somehow made it filthy. “Soon,” he continued, upping the pace, “Need you inside me. Just -- hah, shit, faster -- just fucking take me; I’m yours.” Gerard groaned at that, biting his lip because someone was going to hear them, seriously, but he couldn’t make himself care at the moment. Frank picked up on it. Of course Frank fucking picked up on it.

“You like that, huh? Want to fucking keep me? Tie me up like a goddamn pet?” Gerard knew when he’d been caught, so he just nodded helplessly and thrust up into Frank’s hand. Said hand slowed down in increments when Gerard tried to nonverbally tell him to go _faster, oh God please_. Then the angle was changing and their dicks were sliding together, Frank with one hand around the both of them, standing on his toes to make it possible. Why hadn’t Gerard thought of that before? And he never stopped talking the whole fucking time, whispering obscenities into the quiet stall.

“Or would you rather be mine?” Frank grinned seductively, latching onto the skin just below Gerard’s jaw and sucking between words, hard enough to hurt. “Because that could be -- ah -- we could do that. How would you like take some fucking orders, Gee? Just drop to your knees and suck me off whenever I feel like it? And I would leave you there, you know, to finish yourself off unless I really thought you deserved it,” and then he bit that spot, hard, and Gerard came messily between the two of them, Frank not far behind. For a few seconds, everything was gone -- the bathroom, the gas station, all of fucking New Jersey -- in a flash of brilliant white light.

It was over abruptly, leaving Gerard shaking just the slightest bit, wrung out emotionally and physically. Frank, apparently, was never wrung out in either regard, because he was already prepared with paper towels, cleaning them up and occasionally kissing the places he’d bitten between swipes. Either Frank had some kind of S&M-themed telepathy, or Gerard was really, really easy to read, -- probably the latter -- because he’d been pretty damn spot-on with the whole ownership thing. He could play it off as heat-of-the-moment fantasy, probably, but if Frank was really into that too, who was he to deny him?

“Check the mirror,” Frank laughed after pulling both their pants up and trying to make Gerard’s hair sort of presentable. Gerard obliged.

“Are those fucking bite marks?” He all but squeaked, and it was true: most of his neck looked like it had taken some form of abuse, but there was an angry red hickey and a set of fucking bite marks just under his jaw. Frank nodded happily.

“Now everybody’ll know that you’re mine,” he said, only half-teasing, and it sent a shiver down Gerard’s spine. Actually, he was okay with that. It’s not like they could run into anybody Gerard knew out here in the middle of nowhere, and, admittedly, he kind of liked the idea of strangers staring at him and knowing that he and Frank had sex rough enough to leave fucking bite marks. That was pretty awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

Mikey only picked him up because of the eyeliner. He did it the same way as Gerard, with heavy black above fading into crimson below. It made Gerard look like he was some kind of tortured soul or something, but Ryan just looked like he’d been crying. That was okay. Gerard cried a lot too.

They met at a bar -- the same bar where that skinhead had beaten the shit out of him, but Mikey just kept going back because he was that fucking self-destructive. He’d seen Ryan at school before, briefly, and he looked like the kind of guy his brother would hang out with, though Gerard hadn’t mentioned the name before. He was girly. Really fucking girly. Girlier than Gerard, but he’d have to do.

They’d locked eyes from across the smoke-clouded room, and the kid had smiled shyly and given him a little finger-wave, perhaps the most flamboyant take on a classic greeting that Mikey had ever seen, so he’d known it would be easy. Mikey sidled up with his hands in his pockets, aloof and distant in a way that only came from years of practice. He sat down, sipped his drink, and very distinctly did _not_ make the first move.

“Hey,” the kid said, twirling a strand of hair around his finger absently. Mikey glanced over and nodded in acknowledgement. Gerard would say that it was an art form; Mikey called it a science. Either way, the kid was wrapped around his finger a few minutes later and wrapped around Mikey more literally a few minutes after that, clinging to him in the alley outside the back door. It was where he’d been jumped, and, if he squinted, he thought he could still make out blood stains against the weathered brick. Probably just his imagination.

Fifteen minutes later, the kid was stripping at the foot of the bed while Mikey lounged against the headboard, trying his best to stay interested.

“What’s your name?” He asked, not because he needed something to moan out during climax -- Mikey really wasn’t one to make noise of any type, and even if he was, he had a very different name in mind -- but because he needed something to ground him to reality, remind him that this kid wasn’t Gerard, that there would most likely be neither pet names nor a post-coital planning session regarding the possible zombie apocalypse. Regretfully. He had been really looking forward to that part.

“Ryan,” he answered, toeing off his sneakers. Ryan had somehow managed to get his jeans off over his sneakers, which was really quite impressive considering said jeans looked like they were about to meld permanently to his legs. Mikey didn’t supply his name in return, because it was probably better if they never saw each other again after this. He was beginning to regret seeing Ryan at all.

“Come here,” Mikey said once they were both down to their boxers, voice completely devoid of intonation. Ryan hesitated, blushed, and crawled across the bed on hands and knees to straddle Mikey.

“I, um,” he stuttered nervously, but Mikey shushed him with a quick press of lips and a thumb under Ryan’s waistband. This was already turning out to be a mistake: Ryan was pretty, yeah, but he was fucking shy, and that wasn’t what Mikey was looking for in the slightest. They didn’t break the kiss when Ryan tugged his briefs off, but Mikey had to pull away to shimmy out of his, and Ryan made a tiny, frankly adorable sound of protest and bit Mikey’s lip. That was doing it for him, and he tried his best to make that known, moaning and pulling Ryan’s hips forward until their chests touched. Ryan shuddered and shit, he was even tinier than Mikey, and Mikey was so tiny that if you looked at him from the side you might mistake him for a lamp post.

“There’s stuff in the nightstand,” he mumbled against Ryan’s lips, biting back and releasing him. He panted in place for a moment before scrambling across the bed to fish around in the drawer, giving Mikey a lovely view of his ass in the process. That in itself was another problem: Ryan had a great ass and all, but that really wasn’t what Mikey was interested in at the moment. He just needed to get fucked, plain and simple, and Ryan obviously was not going to give him that, not with the way he was spreading his legs ever-so-slightly, teasing before he straightened up.

He hoped Ryan wasn’t the kind of guy who thought putting condoms on with your mouth was a good idea -- he and Gerard had actually had an in-depth discussion about regular versus oral application at one point -- but no, it was quick and practiced and thankfully did not involve Mikey’s dick in Ryan’s mouth. Again, Mikey didn’t have anything against Ryan’s mouth, but he imagined that it would be slow and gentle and teasing, and he just wasn’t up for that at the moment. Or ever. Mikey wasn’t sure he could be gentle anymore.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked once Ryan was once again situated safely between his legs. He thought he knew the answer, but it was worth trying, right?

A slow, coy grin spread across Ryan’s face. He leaned in just a fraction and dropped his voice to a whisper, like it was some kind of secret. “Wanna fuck me?” 

Okay, Mikey had seen that coming, but it was still sort of a letdown. Whatever; if he wasn’t getting what he wanted, he could at least help Ryan out.

“Sure,” he said, suppressing an eye-roll. Ryan smirked at that, bit his own lip lightly, and grabbed Mikey’s hand. Oh. He’d almost forgotten that preparation was a necessity for normal people, mainly because it had stopped playing an active role in his fantasies as of late. Quite the opposite, actually. But yeah, fingering; Mikey could do that. Actually, Mikey considered it one of his strong points: his bass hobby was pretty helpful in the dexterity department, and he knew that was important because he’d caught Gerard staring at his hands more times than he could count. He’d always played it off as staring into space, but that was bullshit and they both knew it. He could actually remember the exact moment when Gerard’s frequent staring became less than innocent, because his brother’s face was like an open book. One page said ‘wow, Mikey’s got callouses,’ and the next said ‘I need Mikey’s fingers inside me right now’. And wow, that mental image flipped some switch in his brain, because if it was _Gerard_ slicking his fingers and pressing down against him, Mikey wouldn’t be so goddamn passive. Mikey would make it good. And he _wanted_ to make it good for Ryan, it was just hard when he kept getting distracted.

So he flipped them over and pressed Ryan into the mattress with an arm across his chest. He felt the sharp intake of breath rather than heard it, leaned his weight far enough forward to hurt just a little bit, reveled in the way Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed, more concerned than anything else. Slowly, (because Ryan wanted it slow, and Mikey was in the process of convincing himself that he wanted what Ryan wanted) he slipped one finger inside and watched the look on his face transform from concerned to _oh God_ pained and then completely blissed-out, mouth parted and breathing heavy already. Mikey was added a second, probably before he was ready, only to see that fascinating progression again, lingering in pain a little longer than strictly necessary. _For Ryan_ , he reminded himself and steadied his hand, crooking both fingers in a motion that made Ryan writhe beneath him.

“Yeah?” Mikey panted, fuck eloquence, because he needed some kind of confirmation that he was not doing something tremendously wrong. Ryan cracked an eyelid and nodded frantically, hands searching for purchase against Mikey’s back, wandering up into his hair. There, that was another spot, another jolt of electricity surging through the two of them. Mikey bucked his head, just a little, trying to get Ryan to pull, but he just backed off and stared up at Mikey with wide brown eyes. Whatever. He wasn’t going to _ask._

Resignedly, he scissored his fingers, thrust gently, and waited for Ryan to give him a sign. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Oh God,” Ryan panted below him, “you can _go_. Please.” And if that wasn’t a fucking sign, he didn’t know what was, so he pulled away, slicked himself for real this time, and pushed in without ceremony, savoring the way Ryan’s face contorted and his body tightened against the the intrusion.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Mikey grunted. It wasn’t hard to imagine their roles reversed, Gerard asking Mikey to tell him when it hurts. The only difference was that Mikey would stop the second Ryan opened his mouth and Gerard would only fuck him harder. And if he was busy picturing this while he braced himself against the headboard and met Ryan when he surged up for brief, frantic kisses, he wouldn’t admit it.

Mikey closed his eyes and kind of zoned out for a few minutes, wondered what Gerard was doing right now. Maybe getting laid, he thought vaguely, and it was probably awesome because Gerard wasn’t afraid to just take what he wanted. Mikey imagined that they actually shared the creepy sibling-telepathy his friends so often joked about, that maybe the pressure building in the pit of his stomach really belonged to Gerard. That was, admittedly, a really fucking cool thought: his brother, miles away, fucking some anonymous guy and feeling what Mikey was feeling. He frowned. Gerard was probably getting the short end of the stick on that one.

“Aah -- aah -- I’m gonna--” Ryan was moaning beneath him, breath hitching with each thrust. Mikey snapped back into reality with a jolt so akin to physical sensation that he began to suspect his telepathy theory held some water. Determinedly -- because he was determined; he was just spacing out a little -- he jerked Ryan through his climax. Admittedly, Ryan had an ‘O’ face that could launch a thousand ships. If Mikey had a picture, he would make it his fucking Sidekick background, really, so he tried his best to memorize the soft pout of Ryan’s lips for later use.

Being a bored teenager had its advantages: Mikey realized that spacing out had kept him going longer than usual, so he continued doing just that and fucked Ryan through another orgasm. Maybe he’d spread the word that Mikey was awesome in bed. That had to be worth something. When he finally did make himself come, he was re-imagining the scenario half a week ago yet again, adding detail, continuing the scene like his life was a movie and the director’s cut included blowjobs.

For a climax, it was kind of anticlimactic, but when he rolled off, Ryan was looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes and panting like he’d just run a marathon. Twice. Mikey figured that was pretty good. He kind of wanted to apologize -- maybe it ran in the family -- but didn’t, instead choosing to spread out on the bed and run a hand absently up and down Ryan’s thigh, hoping he’d be gone when Mikey woke up.

~

Frank and Gerard covered a hundred or so miles unscathed. They were probably making good time, though there was really no time frame and neither of them were quite sure where they were in relation to New York City. Nevermind the fact that Gerard’s broken internal compass was what got him stuck in Dogwood in the first place.

Most of the ride was spent in one car: the guy was named Mario, and he was the fucking definition of flamboyant. Frank silently thanked god for that, too, because anyone less than six on the Kinsey scale would have beaten the shit out of both of them. He was a little chubby, wearing a sensible sweater vest and fucking pink hair, seriously. They ran in to Mario on the way out of the bathroom. Literally ran in to him, while Gerard was still fixing his hair and Frank was buttoning his totally sweet button-fly.

“Sorry!” Gerard had squeaked, and Frank didn’t know his ears could go that red, though it shouldn’t have been surprising considering he was pale enough to be translucent. Mario just waggled his eyebrows and winked at Frank. _Winked at him._

“Not a problem. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your fun,” Mario said in a tone that clearly deserved an ‘ey’ and a conspiratorial elbow jab.

And so they’d jump-started the conversation with innuendo and kept it going as a steady undercurrent, like Mario was totally in on the joke, though he hadn’t exactly been in the bathroom with them. Frank was more than happy to explain their situation, still a little awe-struck by vagabond life, more than a little pumped from the awesome sex. He squealed mentally at that: he and Gerard just had _awesome sex_. In a _truck stop restroom_. And it wasn’t even creepy!

Mario seemed to share this enthusiasm about pretty much everything from from boys (cool in Frank’s book) to cooking (awesome in Frank’s book) to fashion (and okay, maybe that chapter of Frank’s book was missing a few pages, but whatever) so they spent most of the ride chatting animatedly while Gerard moped in the back seat. Frank didn’t know what he had to be moping about. Certainly not the awesome sex. Maybe he was still upset about his brother; Frank could understand that, but couldn’t he see that the world was full of awesome people who were totally okay with his lifestyle? Like Mario, who was about as straight as a circle and twice as fabulous. Plus, if his brother really loved him, (and Frank was sure he did; he could see it in Gerard’s eyes when he talked about Mikey) he would learn to accept Gerard for who he really was. And if not, well, Frank was there to help him through it.

Frank tried asking about it once, while Mario was outside pumping gas. “Thinking about Mikey?” he questioned, straightforward as always. Gerard, who had been slouching with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, looked up and blushed scarlet, like he’d been caught.

He shifted to cross his legs and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Listen,” Frank started, twisting his torso to get a good view around the headrest, but Gerard cut him off.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said. Frank let it drop, because he wasn’t that nosey.

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride, so Frank kept himself busy by talking to Mario and listening to his Walkman in shifts. Mario kept asking hilariously personal questions about Frank and Gerard’s sex life, which Frank refused to answer at first.

“It’s Gerard, isn’t it? He seems like the strong, silent type, and they can be pret-ty assertive in bed.”

He gave in after ten minutes of speculation. “We haven’t really done that yet,” he admitted, glancing in the rear-view to make sure Gerard wasn’t fuming or anything. He was still just staring sullenly out the window.

Mario threw a hand over his mouth in mock astonishment. “Oh honey, you are _missing out_. What were you doing in the bathroom, then? Sucking him off?” And it was Frank’s turn to blush because well, he hadn’t ever done that either, with anyone. The idea wasn’t exactly unappealing; he’d seen Gerard’s dick before, and it looked pretty great, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted it in his mouth. Then again, Gerard had seemed to really enjoy blowing _him,_ so maybe it wasn’t all bad. Would it be the same if he did it? Because Frank had kind of let go, much to his embarrassment, and that made it actually look kind of painful to be on the receiving end.

“Um, no,” Frank answered.

Mario’s eyes went comically wide. “Was he sucking _you_ off?” And Frank threw a hand over his face in exasperation.

“Nobody was sucking anyone off! We were just...” he trailed off and made a less-than-subtle hand gesture to illustrate his point. “But... with both of them?”

Mario nodded knowingly and informed him that there was a proper name for that, but it was some crazy French-sounding bullshit that Frank couldn’t be bothered to remember. Seriously, when would he need to use that in conversation _ever_? A few minutes passed in silence, during which he listened to the car hum and wondered if the word really was French, and, if so, did that mean the French invented the thing where two dudes rub dicks? Because Frank highly doubted that; from what he’d heard, the ancient Greeks were all _about_ gay sex, so they probably came up with it first.

“How about that bite mark, huh?” Mario asked, because apparently the guy could not shut up about boning for even five minutes. Whatever, it was a shared interest. “Is he _really_ kinky or what?”

Frank shrugged. He honestly wasn’t sure what qualified as kinky, and even then wouldn’t know how to go about applying the term to Gerard. “Maybe?” He compromised. “I mean, the biting was my idea. He seems to really like...” and he dropped his tone here, though there was no way Gerard didn’t already know they were talking about him, “...being rough, I guess. Like, most people see sex as an emotional thing, right? But I think he kind of sees it as carnal. Like, using the other person to get off. Or being used. I don’t know, I guess I’m okay with that.” The funny thing was, he hadn’t really sorted it out in his head until that point, but that was a pretty accurate description. Frank felt like maybe he should have a problem with Gerard’s outlook, because he honestly saw Gerard as a lot more than just an object to facilitate release, but that wasn’t really what it was about. They could keep those preferences in the bedroom, probably, or wherever they happened to be when Frank next gave in to the urge to stick his hand down Gerard’s pants. He hoped they could, because Frank didn’t want to stop having maybe-kinky sex with Gerard anytime soon.

Finally, _finally_ , Gerard interjected. “I’m right here, you know,” he said, but there was a tiny smile playing across his face. Frank wasn’t really sorry for discussing his fetishes with a pink-haired stranger, so he only smiled back and wrinkled his nose. Gerard snorted.

“It’s true though, right?” Frank asked

“That you’re okay with being used?” he shot back. “Beats me. You knew what you were getting in to.” Frank glared playfully, conveying a silent _that’s not what I meant._ He refrained from pointing out that he didn’t really know what he was getting into at the time, because by some lucky coincidence, he happened to like it just the same.

Frank climbed into the back seat at the next intersection, ignoring Gerard’s protests over his feet on Mario’s upholstery and his seatbelt, nowhere near his body, -- it’s not like Mario minded -- but he buckled himself safely into the middle seat and pressed his face Gerard’s shoulder.

“You smell like dude,” he mumbled. Gerard didn’t ask him what exactly dude smelled like (sweat and grime and all things pleasantly masculine) but grabbed Frank’s hair and none-too-gently pulled him closer, smushing Frank’s nose in the process. Frank bit back in retaliation, eliciting a yelp that quickly dissolved into girlish laughter.

“Not while I’m driving,” Mario said, grinning. Frank glanced up to see Gerard grinning right back, even if it was a kind of smile/eyeroll hybrid, and they settled into a comfortable silence, Frank’s head resting on Gerard’s shoulder.

~

Mario dropped them within twenty minutes of the city. He was apparently headed all the way to Chicago, in search of some Broadway actor whose memoir he was attempting to write. It wasn’t stalking, he insisted, even if said actor was not crazy about seeing Mario everywhere he went. Whatever, Frank wasn’t going to judge. Anyway, they got off at (yet another) rest stop and tried to give Mario a twenty for his trouble, which he didn’t accept. Instead, he left them both with a kiss on the cheek and drove off into the midday smog, Frank waving and Gerard blushing furiously until he was gone.

“That crazy motherfucker,” Frank said, shaking his head like that was all there was to say on the matter.

“Yeah,” agreed Gerard. They stood in silence for a few moments and gazed at the spot where Mario’s car had been seconds before. Frank wished he had a cigarette, because it felt like the kind of moment in which he should light up for dramatic emphasis.

Finally, Gerard spoke. “I’ve gotta pee,” he said. Frank snorted, and the glamour was gone. He kinda had to go too, though, so he nodded and began spinning around aimlessly, looking for one of those signs with the blocky bathroom people. Gerard would probably have something to say about those identical little dudes enforcing gender stereotypes, so Frank didn’t voice his thoughts.

Every other rest stop he’d ever visited look like a veritable wreck -- with gas leaks and a homeless guy named Maurice selling rotten fruit in a plywood stand -- compared to this one. No, this rest stop was huge. This rest stop’s metaphorical fruit stand was selling fucking papayas that drove your car for you. There were about four more buildings than necessary, and Frank had a sneaking suspicion that at least three of them were gift shops selling overpriced coffee mugs to unsuspecting New York City tourists. The entire place was done up in terracotta tiling and grey stone, with low shrubs guarding every entrance like under-watered gargoyles. This place meant business.

Suddenly, there was a hand on Frank’s arm and he wasn’t spinning in circles anymore, though the buildings looked like they still were. And okay, maybe Frank had stopped looking for signs when he’d realized that he could spin fast enough to make the shrubs look like shaggy green carpet, but whatever. He was having fun. Anyway, Gerard grabbed his arm and yanked him off balance, and Frank tried to fall gracefully into his open arms, but he only ended up landing on his ass. He stared dazedly up at Gerard, too dizzy to be pissed off. Gerard outstretched his hand like an afterthought.

“Sorry,” he laughed, and Frank took the hand begrudgingly. He didn’t look sorry. “Bathrooms are over there,” Gerard explained, gesturing over his shoulder with one thumb. And oh yeah, they had been looking for some of those before Frank rediscovered his helicopter-blade ancestry. And they walked hand-in-hand to the little boys’ room, grinning at each other like huge dorks -- at least until Frank got distracted by the vending machines.

There were like five hundred of them. Okay, there were nine, but that was still way more than he’d ever seen in one place. He stopped for a full minute to bask in their glory. Two coke machines, Pepsi, energy drinks, two snack dispensers, a machine dedicated entirely to M&Ms, something that apparently sold overpriced disposable cameras, aspirin and condoms, and a fucking coffee machine. Fucking coffee. _In a vending machine._

“Holy shit, Gerard,” he said after a moment, because _holy shit._

“Holy shit, Frank,” Gerard shot back. He was obviously not impressed. Fucking cultured bastard had probably already seen condoms in vending machines in his extensive travels.

“No, dude, there’s _coffee_. Like, I guess you put in your money and it’s like a mechanical coffee-dude.”

“Barista?” Gerard supplied, and Frank just nodded his head like _yeah, whatever_. “Yeah, those things are nasty. It’s like water and Splenda in a Styrofoam cup. Not worth the dollar twenty-five.”

“It’s only one twenty-five?” Frank all but yelled in amazement, prompting an eye-roll in response.

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted you to get from this conversation,” Gerard said. “Trust me, man, you _really_ don’t want to drink that shit.”

Frank _really_ did want to drink that shit, and he let Gerard know just that. There may or may not have been some finger-pointing involved. Eventually, Gerard sighed and agreed that Frank could do what he wanted with his money, but could they at least go to the fucking bathroom first? And Frank agreed, because Gerard was kind of a Coffee Elitist and he had really expected more protest.

So they took care of business. Gerard fixed his hair while Frank soaped up his hands, (“What the shit, were you raised in a _barn_? Wash your goddamn hands, Gee!”) and they maybe made out for a little bit in one of the stalls, because it had gone so well _last_ time. Making out was all they had time for, though, because Gerard had just started palming Frank through his jeans and was going for his totally sweet button-fly when the door banged open and two guys entered, talking loudly and generally being obnoxious. Even before Frank’s brain had finished processing the thought of oh shit, not again, Gerard had lifted him up to stand on the toilet seat, purely on instinct. The guy was a fucking life saver. He was short enough that he only had to crouch a little to keep out of sight.

 _Fuck_ , Frank mouthed silently, like the same sentiment wasn’t currently bouncing around Gerard’s brain.

 _I know,_ Gerard mouthed back.

They both looked at their feet for a few long moments, and then Frank braced his hands on the stall door and snuck a glance. He couldn’t see much, just the backs of their nearly identical Yankees baseball caps, so he ducked back down and tried not to focus too much on the near silence. Frank never understood why guys always shut up while they were pissing in the same room. Wasn’t it more awkward to acknowledge it by stopping halfway through a conversation? Seriously, were you just supposed to pick up where you left off once everybody was back in their pants, or what? He had always been of the firm belief that talking in the restroom went a long way to relieve the inherent weirdness of whipping your dick out in front of another dude, a philosophy which had earned a few sidelong glances and quite a few more ' _faggot'_ s scrawled on his notebooks when they inevitably turned up in the lost and found. That, in turn, made the crazy old lady who worked in the attendance office pretty much hate him. Whatever, he and Gerard talked while they were pissing. Then again, Frank fantasized about sucking Gerard’s dick, so maybe it wasn’t evidence in his favor.

Finally, the guys zipped up and started talking again, and if it was a continuation of their initial conversation, science would never know. He sighed and stepped down off the toilet seat, shaking his head violently to get the hair out of his face. Then he mussed it up some more because he was on a _soul quest_ , okay, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. The mood was dead, though, and right now what Frank wanted was some Splenda-in-water vending machine coffee.

“I think we’re cursed,” Gerard thought aloud, watching Frank try unsuccessfully to force a crinkled dollar bill into the machine slot. “The universe is punishing me for running away from my demons--”

“Wait, are we talking awesome demons or metaphorical demons here?” Frank cut in, searching his pockets for another dollar.

“Metaphorical,” Gerard sighed.

“Lame. ‘Cause I could totally picture you going all exorcist on their asses, with like a fucking huge sword shaped like a cross. And leather pants.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Leather pants are totally impractical when it comes to demon fighting. You can’t fucking move in those things, let alone drop-kick Satan’s minions.”

“You should wear leather pants anyways.”

Gerard leaned against the machine, cool as could be, and twitched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “As I was _saying_ , I think we’re cursed to walk the earth eternally sexless.”

Frank just snorted, because he was being serious. He was pretty sure he could recognize Gerard’s Serious Face at this point, and he was definitely Serious Face-ing. He jumped in surprise when the thing accepted his dollar.

“Oh _hell_ yes,” Frank all but moaned, jabbing the huge button with a picture of what he assumed was a latte of some sort. “Check that shit out. It even dispenses the cup for you!” He crowed. Indeed, the machine did spit out a tiny Styrofoam cup by means of gravity and a plastic chute and set to work filling it with brownish-clear liquid, then white stuff, then clear stuff. Frank stuck his finger under the jet of clear stuff, because what the fuck even _was_ that? He brought it to his mouth and spit reflexively. “Oh god, what the fuck?”

“Sugar-free vanilla syrup,” Gerard said sagely. Frank just squinted at him.

“How do you even know that?” He asked, and Gerard motioned to the huge plastic button. In tiny print at the bottom were the words ‘sugar-free vanilla latte’. Shit. What was the point of a latte if it didn’t have any sugar in it?

“Yeah, whatever, mister 20/20,” Frank grumbled as he took his coffee-flavored food product from the slot. He nearly dropped it, too, because the little machine was not nice enough to give him a cardboard sleeve. Gerard was still suppressing laughter. Frank glared.

“Fuck you, this is as hot as Satan’s _ass crack_.”

“You swear like a trucker when you need caffeine, huh Frankie?”

Frank scoffed at the nickname. His mom called him Frankie when she wanted him to do chores or something-- kind of a boner-kill. “Yeah, well I’m basically drinking truck-stop coffee, so I think I’m allowed to.”

Gerard nodded like that was a fair assessment. Fuck yeah, it was a fair assessment. Frank could swear if he wanted to. The phrase _bad influence_ flashed across his mind like a strobe light before he could stop it. He couldn’t help but laugh a little, because maybe Gerard _was_ a bad influence. Definitely. Frank just got the urge to let loose around him: run around, punch things, swear like a motherfucker and just generally act like the feisty ball of energy he had to restrain around his mom. Not that he blamed her; his mom’s Frankie did laundry and was pleasant to guests, even the stupid ones. Gerard’s Frankie never wanted to wash his jeans again.

Gerard’s Frankie was also _really_ excited about hitchhiking. They stood on the the curb right up against the highway and Frank thrust out his thumb like they did in movies every time a car passed.

“It stops being fun after half an hour, trust me,” Gerard said glumly from his spot against Frank’s legs.

“So does your mom,” he retorted half-heartedly.

“Yeah, whatever. You wouldn’t know what to do with my mom.”

And he puzzled over that one for a second. “Wait, like, she’s a lousy lay? Or are you implying that I’m gay? Getting some mixed messages here.”

“There’s no implication about it,” Gerard sighed.

So they stayed like that for another two hours, morale rapidly declining. Frank sat down when his thumb started cramping (seriously? Was that even a place that could cramp?) and spent awhile staring at Gerard’s ass in those tight, tight jeans. Gerard noticed, of course, giggled, and sent Frank off to buy him his own cup of sort-of-coffee. He resisted the urge to say ‘I told you so’.

“D’you wanna start walking?” Gerard asked half an hour later. The sun was beginning to set, casting ghoulish shadows off ordinary objects, and Frank was beginning to hate the Giant Fucking Rest Stop with a passion. There was really no point in walking other than for a change of pace, but pretty much anything was better than waiting around and propositioning families with kids.

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed.

And so they walked. And walked. And fucking walked until Frank was done walking. Just done, okay? He had tiny legs; he could admit that; and it was getting dark and cold and nobody was even slowing down. Every flash of headlights was a promise; a fucking cold beer just out of his grasp, and they were in the desert. Frank voiced this -- he thought it was a clever metaphor -- but Gerard pointed out that while beer was arguably totally awesome, it would do very little to keep you hydrated in the desert. He instead suggested that the cars were signal flares and they were lost at sea, but each time they got close to the source, the tides drove them back again. Frank didn’t like that comparison, because it wasn’t like anything was keeping them away from rescue; there was just nobody who wanted to rescue them.

“Because everybody is assholes,” he insisted, subject-verb agreement be damned, and so they argued playfully for few minutes before Frank remembered what they were talking about it, then the mood defaulted to wistful depression on Gerard’s part and generalized anger on Frank’s. They sat there and moped together. Frank rested his head on Gerard’s backpack; he considered asking Gerard to make out to pass the time, but drifted into fitful sleep before he could find the words.

~

“Frankie. Frankie, wake up!”

It was fucking bright. Blindingly, brain-explodingly bright, and somebody was shaking him awake. The sickly smell of unfiltered exhaust pervaded the air, like rotten eggs and gasoline, and instead of diffusing like gross smells are wont to do, it seemed to hover in a cloud around Frank, suffocating him and just generally making his life miserable. “Get the fuck up you lazy asshole,” Gerard was hissing inches from his ear. He didn’t wait for a response before he dragged Frank forcefully to his feet. The blinding light dissipated, and he opened his eyes. They were a little ways into the road, standing in front of a murky green pickup truck. The light/crowd control weapon turned out to be the thing’s high beams blasting them in the face. The stench of unfiltered exhaust turned out to be unfiltered exhaust.

“Whuzza gah?” Frank inquired, his ability to speak not yet up to par. It was okay; the sentiment was there.

“Truck,” Gerard enunciated like he was teaching phonics to mentally challenged kindergardeners, .“Here to pick us up.” And oh, okay, Frank got it now. Truck. Here to pick them up. Of course.

And then Gerard was scrambling up the impossibly high chassis and scooting in, and he was being lifted up and into the window seat, Gerard’s pale arms wrapped tightly around his waist for support. He stayed like that with his face pressed against the glass. When he was little, he would smush his nose on the bathroom mirror and his mom would get mad because it smudged the glass. It gave Frank a pig nose and it was _awesome_. He tried to do it now, staring cross-eyed at the ghost of his reflection in dark glass, but Gerard yanked him away.

“Seatbelt, Frankie,” he chastened. Frank was still having trouble moving of his own accord, preferring to slump in on himself and let the truck’s motion throw him around, so Gerard leaned across him to fish for the seatbelt. That woke him up a little bit, because Gerard was _all in his face_ , and he smelled like dude, still, maybe a little on the rancid side, but that was cool. Frank didn’t mind, not when there were hands all over his body, light and unsatisfying because Gerard wasn’t _trying_ to touch him, just trying to keep him from being catapulted through the windshield in the unlikely event that they hit something. He mumbled ‘thanks’ into Gerard’s shoulder, because it seemed like a nice thing to do in exchange for pretty much saving his life. In the future. Saving his future-life. Frank was still kind of out of it.

Then people were talking, Gerard and the driver, and Frank caught the conversation but only internalized it in the vaguest sense of the word. Mostly the -standard ‘where are you from, where are you going?’ spiel. He listened more to Gerard’s voice than his words. It was nice, soothing. And then it wasn’t.

There was yelling; then Gerard’s voice was climbing the scale in fucking leaps and bounds, until it eventually petered out entirely. Frank was trying to make himself listen, but all he could understand was that Gerard was scared, and nothing made sense. There was a soft click, and then complete, ear-splitting silence.

“Sit down.” A rough voice from somewhere to his left. Gerard’s weight was suddenly off his chest, shifted to the seat beside him and Frank could see again, hear again. Everything was suddenly in perfect focus.

The driver was on his left, lips curled back in a snarl, hand thrust toward Frank’s head. There was cold weight pressed against his temple.

“Frankie, don’t move,” Gerard whispered brokenly beside him. Frank strained to look at him from the corner of his eye: Gerard had never been paler.

The look in Gerard’s eyes told him that the thing shoved against his head was, without a doubt, a pistol.

“Give me your bags,” the driver said, twisting his hand for emphasis, letting the barrel dig into Frank’s skull. He didn’t move, _couldn’t_ fucking move, but Gerard was already gathering them both up, passing them to the guy with the gun. Frank understood _what_ was going on: they were being robbed at gunpoint. In a fucking pickup truck. He didn’t understand _why_ , and his body pretty much refused to move until his brain figured it out.

“And empty your pockets,” he continued. Frank couldn’t see, but he could sense Gerard gritting his teeth.

“What the fuck are you--”

“Shut the fuck up!” The guy cut Gerard off by grabbing Frank's hair ( _ow ow ow ow_ ) and yanking him across the cab so that he was pressed against the guy's chest, jamming the barrel up under his chin. He could see Gerard clearly now, still completely surreal: his eyes were impossibly wide and his lip was bleeding inexplicably and Frank simply could not make himself believe that this was real. He watched in a daze as Gerard turned his pockets inside-out, passed the guy his wallet, and reached across to do the same for Frank. The driver batted his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” he grunted. Gerard recoiled.

They were both staring at him. Frank could feel it. He needed to empty his pockets and then they could leave, he told himself, but his hands were shaking so hard that he could barely shove them in, lift his wallet awkwardly above his head.

The guy snatched it, shoved Frank away, and in a flurry of motion, they were out of the car and tumbling into the ditch by the side of the road.

Frank landed wetly somewhere in the bottom and forcefully switched his brain off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck--_

Gerard caught himself halfway down, scrabbling at the dew-moistened grass until he was pretty sure there was bedrock and dinosaur bone caked under his fingernails. He righted himself, coughing from panic, just in time to see tail lights receding into the distance. A few paces later, he stopped chasing them because what the _fuck_ , that was an awful idea. The guy had a fucking _gun_. Instead, he collapsed on the ground and tried to make himself breath. It was a lot harder than it sounded, breathing, and each lungful of air was like a jolt of electricity, burning through him and lighting up every nerve it touched on the way. He choked; he convulsed; he could barely see straight through the fucking tears, apparently his go-to reflex for trauma of any sort, and then things steadied, the world was righted, but everything fell back in place wrong.

“Frank!” And he was a live wire, scrambling down to the figure huddled in the bottom of the ditch.

Frank was curled up in a position that suggested he had aimed for fetal and given up halfway through. The black hair haloed out around his head was already soaking from the grass, strands clinging to his face and tangling there. For a frantic, heart-stopping second, Gerard was afraid he wasn’t breathing, but upon approach he could see the rise and fall of Frank’s chest.

“Frankie, Frankie, oh shit,” he mumbled, dragging Frank into a sitting position against his chest. “Fuck fuck fuck, _talk to me_!”

What if the guy had pulled the trigger in the commotion? Frank would be going into shock, and fuck, he was trembling convulsively in Gerard’s arms. Gerard couldn’t see the blood, but there had to be blood; he could feel it congealing all around him, pooling in the crevice of Frank’s collar bone, seeping down and into his clothes and _draining_ Frank--

But no, his blood was only rainwater and Frank was moving, twisting silently in his grip and shoving his face into Gerard’s shoulder. Biting down for some reason, probably because he was an asshole. The rational, slightly distracted part of Gerard’s brain wondered if it was a comfort thing, like maybe he didn’t jam enough random shit into his mouth as a baby and was making up for lost time. The rest of his brain panicked and made him slide his hands up Frank’s back as a guide, into his hair, to feel around for a head wound. He had no idea what he’d do if he found one, but after a minute of hysterical searching, it proved to be a moot point. Frank wasn’t dying. He tried to untense his shoulders.

Frank was suddenly very obviously, very forcefully alive. His shaking turned into squirming in a matter of milliseconds, and he pushed his weight forward, throwing Gerard off balance.

Finally, a single, glorious word: “Gee,” Frank croaked, somehow managing to make his voice crack on the single syllable.

And then they were clinging desperately to each other, overwhelmed by a temporary awe at simply being alive. Gerard didn’t even try to speak as Frank pressed their faces together in -- something, not resembling a kiss in the slightest but holding the same general sentiment. Really, it was Gerard crying and Frank crying and their tears mingling in pretty much the least manly display of emotion in all of human history. When they broke apart, he got a facefull of Frank’s disgusting, mud-caked hair and didn’t even give a fuck, because they were _alive_.

“Oh shit,” Gerard sniffled, face pretty much covered in snot at this point, “I thought you were _dead_.”

“So did I, for a second there,” Frank mumbled. He was once again overcome with emotion, so they hugged and face-bumped a little more while Frank regained what was left of his composure. “It turns out I just fell in a fucking ditch.”

Nobody even laughed, because it really wasn’t a lie and Gerard was pretty sure he would rupture something if he tried laughing now.

“Yeah, me too,” he agreed amicably.

The shock wore off quickly, trickling like ice water down their spines and thawing the memories of the past ten minutes. Maybe less. It had happened so fucking fast.

They eventually rolled over so that Frank could rest his head on Gerard’s chest and just listen to his heartbeat slow down. It felt like trying to run straight into the ocean: the first few steps in the shallow water were slippery and frantic as the sand shifted beneathhis feet, but once he got in up to his knees, it turned into a slow process. His wake stopped cresting and eventually the seafloor disappeared completely, forcing him to support your own weight as he distanced himself from the shore, completely detached and able to observe from afar. They only really started talking once the bottom dropped out from beneath them, because Gerard’s life was chock full of ledges and rock shelves, not a smooth curve in sight.

“What I just don’t understand,” Frank began, and Gerard’s ears perked up because he was eager to hear what Frank would say: there were quite a few things that he didn’t understand at the moment, and picking just one was not an easy task, “is why somebody would want to mug fucking hitchhikers. I thought the whole point was that we don’t fucking have anything to steal.”

Gerard sighed, long and deep, just to feel the air whooshing out of his lungs and reinflating them. “I suppose if we did have valuables, we’d keep them with us. I mean, if hobos could afford ground-level storage, wouldn’t they just live in there and not be homeless anymore?” And okay, that was obviously illegal and he was pretty sure you needed a permanent address to rent storage -- all the flaws in the statement came rushing at him at once, vying for attention with little picket signs, because God forbid Gerard’s subconscious just lay off the overanalysis for a minute. It didn’t matter. Frank wasn’t listening. He was working things out in his head; Gerard could tell by the furrow of his eyebrows. Maybe fake telepathy was a Way thing.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Gerard advised. “He’s probably just some crazy asshole who got fired from his desk job and decided to take it out on the rest of the world.” And wouldn’t that make a delightfully menial supervillan origin story?

Frank stayed silent for a moment. Gerard couldn’t see it, but he knew he was chewing on his lip and being all pensive again. This wasn’t going to end well. “What about our stuff?” He asked quietly, and Gerard just didn’t know how to answer that.

“We don’t have it,” he pointed out lamely. He had to say something, couldn’t just leave Frank hanging there, fucking drowning in Gerard’s stupid metaphorical ocean.

“I know,” Frank answered, “but he _did_ get some valuables, didn’t he? I mean, I had my Walkman in there, and you had your cell, and like a hundred bucks between the two of us, and -- oh, _fuck_ , Gee, your goddamn sketchpad.”

Gerard almost snorted: that was not what they needed to worry about, and he told Frank as much. “Yeah, and our goddamn clothes and our money and, shit, we don’t even have the fucking shortbread cookies I was saving.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this whole thing about art? Finding yourself? That portrait series, those were people you met travelling, weren’t they? I don’t think our crazed gunman is going to pick up on the emotional significance!” Frank rolled away from him and sat up, crossed his arms. Gerard did the same, because there was something fundamentally disturbing about being below Frank Five-Three Iero’s eye level.

“It’s not significant, Frank,” he sighed. “I’m not ‘finding myself’ by drawing pictures of people who let me ride in their fucking car.”

“Then what about exploration? What about your fucking soul quest?” And they both stood up with that, Frank practically seething in what he obviously saw as righteous fury. Gerard was happy with regular old frustration.

“There is no fucking soul quest, okay?” He spat. “This isn’t about _art_ or fucking _self discovery_.”

“Then what the hell is is about, Gerard?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Frank actually stomped his foot. “I thought I was tagging along to maybe, I don’t know, _expand my worldview_? Of course I want to fucking know if you have ulterior motives!”

And Gerard couldn’t take it, _could not_ fucking take it, because here was Frank, just another name on the list of people Gerard had let down. He wasn’t going to run away from this one, and this determination, this will to make things right was so strong that all tact went out the window and he spoke without really understanding what he was saying:

“It’s about my fucking brother, okay? He got hurt, and you know I have this thing -- I can’t -- fuck. I fucking molested him, okay? He was bleeding and I couldn’t help it and he fucking kissed back and _liked_ it--” and Gerard clapped his hand over his mouth in horror, because _what the fuck had he just said_?

Everything was quiet except the sound of their combined laboured breathing. The anger had drained out of Frank’s face, replaced with... nothing. That was the worst part. Gerard silently begged him to just say something, anything; revile him for his perversion, yell, slap him, just _something_.

When Frank did speak, it was slow and measured, like a misplaced word could send them tumbling over the edge. “I thought you left because he couldn’t accept that you were gay.”

Gerard couldn’t do anything but shake his head weakly.

“And you kissed him?”

A slow nod.

“And he kissed back?”

A second, more hesitant.

Frank looked down at his feet, thought better of it, and looked Gerard in the eye from under his fringe. “Then it’s not really molestation, is it?”

“Goddamn it, Frank! This is serious!” Gerard exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief. The whole situation was a _big deal_ , and Frank was just blowing it off like it was nothing! Gerard was sick, okay? He needed somebody else to acknowledge that.

“I am being serious,” Frank insisted. “Look, it’s none of my business if you want to screw your brother, as long as it’s consensual. I just don’t think running away from home is going to solve anything.”

“So you’d rather I stay and fuck him up?” And Gerard could not believe what he was hearing. He _could not believe it._

“I’m not _saying_ that! I’m just saying you should fucking talk to him. The guy’s probably at home worried sick while you frolic around New York.”

He half scowled at this, unable to suppress the amused eyebrow quirk, trying his best to act pissed. Frank just said _frolic_. Gerard didn’t think he could frolic around anywhere if his life depended on it. None of it mattered, though, because even if he wanted to go home, they didn’t exactly have transportation at the moment. “I don’t think that’s really a possibility right now. Maybe I could have gotten reception on my cell an hour ago and we could have spent the rest of our cash on a fucking cab back to Belleville. Sorry it got _stolen_.”

Frank didn’t argue with that, because Gerard had a point, but he sat back down on the wet grass and hung his head. Gerard joined him.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Frank asked finally. The bags under his eyes had somehow darkened dramatically in the past five minutes, giving him a weathered look, like a panda. Or a cancer patient.

Yet another question Gerard couldn’t answer. He sighed and gave it his best shot anyway: “We can debate where we’re going to go all night, but there’s really only two options: walk, or stay where we are.” Nobody involved was happy with either one.

“Well, I’m not gonna sit on my ass and do nothing,” Frank said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find someplace to sleep.”

This sent Gerard’s mind reeling to places they could sleep: dumpsters, alleys, and others, more unappealing and equally unlikely. Yes, he had signed up for the rugged life, but had been under the false impression that ‘rugged’ entailed nothing more than having two pairs of jeans and maybe blowing strangers in exchange for rides. He was cool with both, though had yet to experience the latter, much to his (unspoken) disappointment. Whatever, Frank was a stranger. He didn’t really have a ride, but Gerard _had_ exchanged blowjobs for... the promise of more blowjobs. That had to count for something.

Anyway, the glamour of life on the road had officially faded. Being homeless sucked ass.

“Fine,” Gerard agreed. “Let’s start walking.” And so they started walking, one foot in front of the other for God knows how long, staying quiet and generally not acknowledging any recent revelations. A heavy, unresolved tension hung in the air and made breathing a chore: Important Things had just happened, and Gerard wanted to talk about them, goddammit, because if he didn’t talk about them now, he would definitely cry about them later. Nobody wanted that.

Finally, he breached one of the many subjects that needed breaching, awkwardly and to the point. “I’m sorry for getting you mugged.”

Frank glanced at him and quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t act like it’s your fault,” he said shortly. And then they stopped talking, which was bad. Gerard had _feelings_ about the situation, okay? And he couldn’t just ignore them, because Gerard was of the firm belief that his feelings were monumentally important.

“I’m the one who fucking -- fucking elbowed my way into your life. You wouldn’t have gone on an epic journey on your own.”

Frank gave him a Look: something along the lines of _would you stop wallowing in self-pity for one fucking second_.

“Okay, first, this journey is not exactly turning out to be epic. Maybe when we find the wizard who needs, I don’t know, seven Objects of Power, it’ll be epic, but until then, this is a normal fucking journey.” Gerard opened his mouth to object to that -- there were other definitions of the word epic (he would have been okay with something involving Cerberus or forehead ridges) -- but Frank cut him off. “And second, I would have worked up the nerve to leave town eventually. You just helped.”

“Yeah,” Gerard scoffed, “helped via sexual coercion. Awesome.”

“Shut the fuck up, okay? If I didn’t want you to suck my dick, I wouldn’t have let you suck my dick, simple as that. Now stop beating yourself up or so help me, I’ll beat you up.”

Gerard actually stopped in his tracks and stared for a second. Shit, talk about tough love.

“Um. Okay,” he agreed meekly, because Frank had goddamn fire in his eyes, and Gerard wasn’t going to argue with that. And maybe the kid was right: he was blaming himself for the situation, but he couldn't help it if some psycho decided to steal their shit. It was kind of like grieving, he realized; Gerard didn't know the stages by heart, but he knew that blaming yourself was a huge part of the process, along with denial and some other shit. Maybe the denial bit didn't apply, because there was no way they _hadn't_ lost their bags, but then again, what they were doing now might count as denial. Not talking about it.

Speaking of Not Talking About It, Gerard was still unsatisfied with Frank's dismissal of the fact that he was fucking his brother. Sort of. Past tense. The point was, Frank just acted like he was cool with it; like there was no problem with his and Mikey's relationship just because it was consensual. Gerard might be inclined to agree, or at least be slightly less disgusted with himself if their intimacy was easy and gentle and simple, but apparently the Ways couldn't do anything simply. No, Gerard didn't want to make love to Mikey; he wanted to fuck him. He wanted to hold him down and hurt him and make him beg for it, and therein was the issue.

Most of all, Gerard just wanted to talk about it all because again, he was a feelings kind of guy. It might not help any more than bottling it up helped, but then at least Frank would understand everything and maybe judge him based on the big picture. He thought a little judgement might do him good.

"About my brother," he started, then reconsidered. The jump from muggings to incest made sense in Gerard's head, but it was probably pretty jarring from Frank's point of view, so he backtracked to ease him into it. "I need to get this off my chest. Can you, uh, can you just tell me if you don't want to hear it?"

Frank raised an eyebrow, (how did he do that? Gerard had spent at least a few total hours in front of the mirror trying to make his eyebrows move individually) and said, "Shoot," so Gerard did.

"First off, Mikey and I are really close. Like, Iron Man and Captain America kind of close, riding on his back cause I can't fly sort of deal." Frank snorted and Gerard was briefly ecstatic that they could be dorky together. "We always have been. And like, I swear it isn't weird outside of this -- this thing; we just play videogames and do normal brother stuff. And you have to understand that I would never hurt him when we're like that, I mean, not if I get angry or anything." He felt the need to stress this point. Gerard cared about Mikey, really, and he didn't want to fuck him up psychologically. "I don't want to hurt him if we're fighting or anything. It's absolutely not because I don't -- don't _love_ him, it's just because, well. Because I get off on it," he finished lamely.

Nobody said anything. There was walking, and what Gerard assumed was pondering on Frank’s part, mulling it over. Then, just when he was about to go completely insane, Frank seemed to come to a conclusion.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

“Yeah,” Gerard agreed at last. “Sorry for making you--”

“Shut up,” Frank said, shoving a hand in his face, the universal sign for ‘stop it’. “I’m thinking.” And indeed he was thinking, and making a big deal of it too -- eyebrows furrowed, biting his lip, stepping forward with absent determination. Gerard almost wanted to laugh, but that wouldn’t earn him serious advice. Maybe a kick to the shin instead, because Frank was fucking _feisty_ when he was thinking and there was nothing in the rulebook about critics beating up artists.

Finally, Frank hummed noncommittally and glanced up at him with narrowed brown eyes, and he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck, like maybe Frank was _checking him out_ or something. Which wouldn’t even make sense. Frank had seen his ‘o’ face; no reason to check him out _now_.

“What exactly did the two of you... do?” Frank asked finally. “I mean, I know you made out and stuff, but did you actually...?”

Gerard flinched instinctively. Was that a deciding factor, whether or not they fucked?

“No! No, we just...” and he trailed off, because it was apparently a subject that required massive amounts of trailing off due to awkwardness.

“Oh. Okay. But you said you hurt him?” And Frank didn’t even change his expression when he said it, like it wasn’t even a big deal. How could it not be a big deal?

“Yeah. Well, I mean, do you want the whole story?” He hedged, but Frank wasn’t having any of that, as evidenced by the exasperated glare in Gerard’s direction. “Okay, yeah,” Gerard consente. “Um. He got in this -- this barfight? Like, Mikey’s not exactly old enough but he has a fake ID, and nobody even gives a fuck in Belleville. And you know, he’s kind of a scrawny dude, but he’ll fuck you up, especially if he’s drunk. He never really explained everything, but I guess he took a couple of guys and one of them broke a bottle. It got him in the shoulder -- like, this deep fucking, I don’t know, this _gash_ , and he stumbled home and wanted me to fix it.” Frank nodded sympathetically. “And I couldn’t say _no_ , but even if I could, I didn’t know about this... about my blood thing, or whatever it is. So yeah, I fucking patched him up but it’s just -- _Frankie_ \--” he glanced at Frank pleadingly, saying _please don’t make me explain this_.

“It’s okay. Chill. I’m not weirded out or anything, right? I get it,” Frank assured him. “I bit you hard enough to bruise. It’s not a big deal.”

At least he could admit it -- fucking Frank and his fucking screwed up priorities -- but he continued anyway, slightly less flustered. “Like I said, I kind of have a thing for blood. I guess. And there was -- there was a lot of blood, okay? I kind of lost it, and I kissed him.” Gerard glared at his feet like they had done him some personal offense. Maybe Frank would let him stop.

No such luck. “Is that it?”

Gerard couldn’t just lie about it.

“Well, no,” he began, and then decided to just fucking say it. Being tactful gave him a headache. “I freaked out and ran off after that, decided to leave, and then I came back and packed my shit. I was just going to talk to him and let him know that I had to go, but we started fighting? I don’t know, he was really pissed off, and he didn’t believe that I needed to uh, find myself. So I told him. Maybe I went a little overboard. And he uh, kissed me. On his own, like, I didn’t initiate it or anything. And you know, I’m just one guy; I can’t fucking not kiss him back. But we were sort of... grinding, I guess, and--” he hesitated. Yes, he was being blunt, but the next part was kind of intense. Gerard was pretty sure it qualified him as straight up psychotic, actually.

"See, I grabbed him by the shoulders at first, and he was still bleeding from the bottle incident. I kind of -- and I swear I didn't even notice I was doing it. This was a totally subconscious thing -- I got my fingers under the bandage and kind of. I mean, you can see where this is going." He was beet red, understandably, but when he glanced up to make sure he wasn't about to get slapped, Frank was flushed too. It was delicate on him, though, just dusting the tops of his cheekbones in a fashion girls everywhere tried to imitate with makeup brushes.

"And?" Frank asked, breathless.

"Um." Gerard felt like he was no longer in control of the conversation. Probably never had been, and the curtain had only just lifted to reveal the man in black holding his strings. "He liked it, I think. Don't ask me why, but he did, because I realized what I was doing and tried to, y'know, stop, but he wouldn't let me. And then he -- keep in mind that he had pretty much been humping my leg this whole time -- he. Y'know." And Frank either didn't know or just wanted to hear it aloud, because he was glaring at Gerard with a sort of dark intensity usually reserved for original vinyl and bad cover bands. "He came in his pants. And I freaked out and ran away."

Frank bit his lip. Suddenly, they both realized that they had stopped walking and started fidgeting at the same time, neither one wanting to be the first to move and end the moment. There was another long pause, which was beginning to become frustrating: was Frank trying not to offend him or something? Because there was not a lot he could say that could top the story Gerard had just told.

Finally, with the most nervous smile Gerard had ever seen on his face, Frank spoke: "Could I maybe help you?"

Gerard was honestly confused for a few moments, because how the hell could Frank help? He had humped his brother, past tense, and unless Frank had a time machine he wasn’t telling anyone about, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to change that fact. This bewilderment must have been obvious on his face, because Frank’s blush quickly intensified, if that was even possible, and he elaborated.

“I mean, would it help you to maybe do that to me?”

Oh. _Oh_ , yeah, Gerard got it. That was not what he had been expecting. It really only served to confuse him more.

“Shit. Uh. Wow. Seriously?” He stammered, because how the fuck was he supposed to respond to that? “What exactly are you asking me here?”

Frank’s blush dissipated like a meter of his confidence, presumably because Gerard hadn’t completely rejected him yet. “You like to hurt people. I can do that. I mean, I get hurt all the fucking time! Always climbing on top of shit and falling off.” He glanced at his feet and dropped his tone. “You can call me Mikey if it makes you feel better.”

Gerard almost physically recoiled at that.

“Frankie. Fuck, that’s not what this is, okay? Oh my God! You’re not a _rebound_! You’re not -- shit, don’t think I’m trying to use you as a fucking substitute for my brother!”

“I never said that!” Frank insisted. “I’m serious here! You can -- I want you to. It doesn’t have to be practice or anything if you don’t want it to, but if you _do_. I mean, I want to help.” And there was that sentiment again, something Frank obviously believed fully, that somehow he would be taking one for the team, as it were. That his definition of helping would actually _help_ , when in reality, Gerard knew it would make everything worse. If he got a taste, he’d want the whole fucking four course meal, with Mikey as goddamn entree. Nothing good could possibly come of this.

“You’re -- this is fucking ridiculous. Have you ever even _had sex_ with somebody who isn’t me?” And wow, that was a low blow, but he couldn’t back down now. “I’m the exception, not the rule. This kinky shit is not normal, okay? You’re going to dive head first into my -- my giant fucking swimming pool of weird fetishes, and then you’re never going to be able to jerk off to a chick in a bikini again.” Or -- and he wouldn’t dare voice it aloud for fear that it would become a real possibility -- Frank could decide he didn’t like it, that Gerard was fucked up, and he would leave and either go home or end up in a dumpster somewhere in five pieces. Gerard couldn’t handle that kind self-imposed responsibility. Hell, he had killed like eight goldfish solely because he was the least responsible motherfucker on the planet, though that didn’t exactly bode well for the ‘keep Frank out of trouble by not letting him out of sight’ plan either. The point was, Frank couldn’t leave, but he couldn’t fucking give himself to Gerard either. Which he currently appeared adamant on doing.

“Don’t talk to me about normal, motherfucker. I’ve had an entire fucking life of normal, and I’m sick of it,” Frank snapped. “You wanna fuck me up, go for it. I need you to fuck me up. It’s like symbiosis or something.”

Gerard stared at him blankly.

“Yeah, I took fucking Biology last year, asshole, get over it.”

The mental image of Gerard as a giant fish and Frank as one of those little fish that lived in its mouth and crushed its food sprang to mind, and Gerard wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Not just the fish, either; everything. He’d told Frank his darkest secret, (yeah, I get off on some crazy sadistic shit with my little brother) and Frank’s response was basically ‘cool, do you want to practice on me first? I’ll even fucking _roleplay_ with you, and maybe we can get ice cream after!’. Nothing made sense anymore, and he was a fish and Frank was a smaller fish and everybody was insane.

“Goddammit, Frank!” He all but shouted, because _goddammit_. And then Gerard did something that he would probably live to regret: he bridged the short distance between them in a single stride and grabbed Frank by the collar to kiss him. That lasted for all of half a second before Gerard had Frank’s bottom lip between his teeth and was biting, hard, tiny incisors digging into the sensitive flesh. It took five seconds of increasing pressure to make Frank whine, gorgeous and high in his throat, and maybe another five to break the skin, really get the point across. Frank squirmed as best he could with hands bracketing his head, and Gerard pulled away just a fraction, coppery taste of blood on his tongue. He leaned in to hiss in Frank’s ear.

“You don’t fucking want this.”

And Gerard stalked off, trying his hardest to stay cool and confident. Nobody had to know if his hands were shaking, because Frank was still standing there, sucking on his damaged lip, so obviously hard in his jeans that it was amazing there was enough blood left for him to blush. Gerard didn’t look back, because if he did, his resolve would break and he’d turn right around, fucking ravish Frank then and there, in the low scrub on the side of the turnpike. He heard Frank following him after a moment, though, a few paces behind. A pang of guilt: true, they had been traveling together for less than two days, but Frank was always so unquestioning, just following Gerard around like a lost puppy and trusting that he wouldn’t get them killed. It made sense that he wouldn’t mind taking a little abuse for Gerard’s sake -- actually, he was pretty insistent about it -- because Frank was young and confused and obviously in need of a role model. Gerard was pretty much the exact opposite of that, but Frank didn’t seem to mind.

He walked and waited for Frank to match his stride, rekindle the debate, but it never happened. They continued for a good twenty minutes without making eye contact, giving Gerard time alone in his thoughts, which was the absolute last place he wanted to be.

Frank’s reaction was really throwing him off. He was the first and only person Gerard had shared his secret with, which was no small matter: he had been debating the inevitability of someone finding out, and, assuming it was indeed inevitable, he had imagined the actual conversation countless times. He’d been fully prepared to admit his wrongdoings, maybe rebut any undeserved insults but, for the most part, he had already come to terms with the fact that he was a sick, sick person. Now, here was Frank, explaining that he didn’t mind, that he actually thought it sounded cool and wanted to join in. Just his luck that Gerard would pair up with the only person in New Jersey who thought that crazy kinky incest was okay as long as he got a role in it.

It got dark fast. In the span of ten minutes, all the light seemed to drain from the open sky. No vibrant sunset, just glowing orange smog and then a complete lack of luminescence while the chill set in. Frank was only walking a pace behind him at this point, though he still hadn’t spoken, and Gerard was waiting for him to make to first move.

When Frank obliged, it was less assertive and more total avoidance: he turned around to walk backwards in front of Gerard _(oh God he’s going to trip and fucking kill himself_ ) and brought up an issue that was probably relevant but absolutely not what Gerard wanted to talk about: “We should probably find someplace to sleep before we get eaten by bears or something.”

Okay, yes, Gerard disliked the idea of being eaten by bears just as much as the next guy, but he’d switched into one-track-mind mode, and that single track was currently headed straight for Frank’s split lip. There was a problem and he needed to resolve it -- that was just the way Gerard worked. Apparently, it was not how Frank worked at all.

“There were houses and shit back there,” he continued, oblivious to Gerard’s mental struggle, “but we passed them. Plus, I’m not sure how safe it is to go begging door to door at this time of night. Wouldn’t be surprised if we got shot or something. This area is huge on game, right? Our best bet is probably to stay near the brush and look for hunting stands; I mean, anything up off the ground is an improvement.”

Gerard sighed and forced himself to focus on the topic at hand. “That’s a pretty big ‘if’. What are the chances of actually finding one, especially since the point is that they’re supposed to be hard to see?” He didn’t want to place any bets on his eyesight at the moment. Also: “Wait, aren’t we more likely to get shot looking for hunters than for old ladies with spare rooms?”

“It’s off season,” Frank said matter-of-factly, giving Gerard a reproachful glance, like _didn’t you do your research?_ And fuck that; hunting seasons meant about as much to Gerard as high school football: that is to say, precisely jack shit. It was still their best shot, no pun intended.

“Sure, whatever. I guess we can just hang out by the woods and keep an eye out. Maybe if we see another house first,” he consented. Gerard trudged over to the edge of the woods -- really more like a section of underbrush that had grown tall enough to acceptably be called overbrush -- and tried in vain to fix his hair and not stumble over shit while he did.

And so they walked, and walked, and fucking walked some more. Gerard would be the first to admit that walking for long periods of time was distinctly not his thing. He had spent many a gym class finding that out the hard way, and suffice to say the hard way involved twenty minute miles and a whole lot of laughing at the fat kid. And Gerard had tried to exercise; he really had, it was just that it was hard and time consuming and even if he managed to squat-thrust his way to the top of the class, he would still get beaten up in the parking lot after school. That was just the way it had to be, because Gerard had been branded a loser the second he set foot in Belleville High -- probably even before that -- rocking eyeliner, neon red extensions, and an extra twenty pounds. He sat with the kids who played Magic: The Gathering at lunch. He _became_ a kid who played Magic: The Gathering at lunch. He got punched in the face. That was just how the universe worked.

Gerard still couldn’t run a mile without stopping for breath, but he had lost the weight eventually. He’d been depressed, doubling the eyeliner and halving the school attendance, for the better part of his Junior year. He’d stopped eating. It was a dark time, okay? And he wasn’t trying to excuse the little episode or anything; far from it. His life had basically been a living hell, a blur of back alleys and toilet seats, but at least it had worked. And it had ended, that summer, with the introduction of prescription pills and drinks with which you weren’t supposed to take them. He started eating again, tried to reverse the damage he’d done, and it worked to an extent. He’d gotten better. He was getting _better_. Gerard would defend that statement with his dying breath.

His dying breath might not be too far off if he didn’t find someplace to rest. It was getting cold, fucking deathly by summer standards. Gerard might still be pissed, but he wasn’t above using Frank as a human heating blanket if need be.

“I can’t feel my ass,” Frank complained, obviously sharing Gerard’s frustration.

“You don’t have an ass.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, really, but maybe it was for the best, because Frank was grinning and clutching his non-existent butt. The tension in the air dissipated noticeably.

Frank elbowed him half-heartedly. “Shut up! I’ll fight you!” And Gerard bust out laughing, partially because Frank was about as intimidating as a Chihuahua (and those things tried really fucking hard to be intimidating) but mostly because his feet hurt and his head was throbbing and he was tired of not laughing. Frank was obviously trying hard not to be amused, probably because his heart was made of the same shit they use to tile bathrooms. “My ass is great, okay?”

“I’m not arguing there! Trust me, I love your ass. I would put it in a little tux and marry it, man. It’s just... not really there,” Gerard laughed, watching Frank’s twisted smile out of the corner of his eye. This was okay. He could live with this until they resolved things. Hopefully.

“Yeah.” Frank rolled his eyes. “Now shut up.”

“You’re just--” Gerard started, but Frank silenced him with a hand.

“No, seriously, shut up. I’m pretty sure that’s a farm.”

He was momentarily confused: what the fuck was Frank going on about? But then he saw it too, squat and beige with white fencing and a vaguely phallic silo, maybe a hundred yards off the road. Gerard literally groaned in relief; just the idea of getting off his feet was like a physical high.

“Oh my fucking God, _yes_ ,” he said, barely resisting the urge to pick Frank up in an enormous bear hug. “Do you think they have beds?”

Frank pulled a face at this. “I’m willing to bet they have like ten times as many shotguns as the average family,” he pointed out.

That was a legitimate point that Gerard hadn’t even considered. Yeah, they would probably just get politely turned away if they pounded on the door begging for shelter, but there was always the off chance that firearms could get involved, and he wasn’t willing to risk it after what they went through only a few hours previously. Wow, Frank had a _gun_ pointed at his _head_ , he realized suddenly, and he was going on like it didn’t even happen. He seemed more concerned about the fact that Gerard wouldn’t beat him up and call him Mikey. Fuck that; Gerard would have PTSD for years if it happened to him. He probably did anyway, just as a witness.

Frank interrupted his train of thought by yelling something happily nonsensical in his ear and dragging him to the edge of the winding dirt driveway. Gerard caught on and they all but skipped along the brushline, examining the area and being generally ostentatious. It didn’t matter, because Gerard didn’t even fucking care if they were caught trespassing at this point: at least a night in jail would be warm.

It stood before them in glorious brown and white -- the colors were off, but there were two-by-four ‘X’s on the doors, eliminating any doubt that it was in fact a barn. Tiny; maybe more like an oversized hay loft, but any structure with barn doors was a barn in Gerard’s book.

“Holy shit. Frank,” he whispered, “please tell me it’s unlocked!”

“It’s unlocked,” Frank responded automatically, earning him a light sock on the shoulder.

“You’ve gotta try to open it first, asshole.”

They both held their breath as Frank grabbed the nearest handle. The door protested and caught as soon as he put his weight into it, and for a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then it gave out and swung toward them, and all doubt suddenly seemed unjustified. Of course it was unlocked, Gerard’s mind reasoned. Who would want to steal shit from a hay loft? Fucking nobody. He and Frank were probably the first people to break into a hay loft ever, because they were fucking innovative.

“Oh my God,” Frank said. They both stopped breathing for a second to take in the sight before them.

Gold. It was piled loosely in some places and stacked floor to ceiling in others, not a farm animal in sight. It was a fucking miracle.

The sheer amount of baled, nearly yellow hay ensured that they could smell it the second they stepped inside; the scent drew them in like a rip tide, warm and heady and inviting. Frank had the presence of mind to shut the door behind them, casting the place in nearly complete darkness. Gerard couldn’t believe their luck: this was nearly as good as finding a bed and twice as unlikely. Hell, people used to make beds _out_ of hay, right? He didn’t know from personal experience, but assumed they were practically the same thing.

There was no debate over where exactly they would sleep: Frank and Gerard both set their sights on the loose landslide of a pile in the far corner. They exchanged glances, Frank smiled, and then they sprung forward in sync and catapulted themselves into the mountain of hay.

This turned out to be largely a bad idea.

“Fucking shit!” Gerard heard from somewhere to his left. The sound was quiet and muffled, mainly because his head and upper torso were jammed in the hay. He had done a sort of flying headbutt into the pile and just stuck where he landed, dry stalks pretty much stabbing his eyes out. From the sound of it, Frank was no better off.

“Nngh mugh!” Gerard agreed, fumbling for leverage. The stuff kept slipping, but when he finally got a grip and popped his head out into the open air he came face to face with Frank, who had apparently slipped down the side and was now crawling up to where the pile plateaued. They stared for a second without laughing, and Gerard was momentarily afraid that there was an actual Serious Conversation about to happen, but then Frank slipped a full inch down until he was at eye-level with Gerard’s chin. _Then_ they laughed, because there was literally nothing not funny about the situation.

“Oh holy shit,” Frank wheezed, scrambling back up to the top and offering Gerard a hand. They seemed to be talking solely in expletives as of late. Gerard blamed lack of sleep.

He grabbed Frank’s hand, managing to hoist himself up after several tries, and they collapsed in the hay together.

Frank wasn’t visible in the gloom, but Gerard could feel his presence with what was most definitely a sixth sense, reserved for knowing where Frank was at all times. He didn’t need a special Frank-sense to hear him giggling. “Dude, did you seriously just harpoon the hay with your head?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Gerard muttered good-naturedly. He shifted around trying to get comfortable, but it obviously wasn’t going to happen. “Okay, this is bullshit. I though hay was supposed to be comfortable!”

You’re sleeping on dry grass,” Frank pointed out.

“But didn’t people use to stuff their beds with this?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “In like the eighteen hundreds.” Gerard huffed and crossed his arms. “Stop complaining and start digging. It’ll be way warmer if we get under it.”

“We have to get under it?” Gerard was not sure he was up for that. Plus, it wasn’t that cold; couldn’t they just sleep on top? And maybe cuddle for warmth? He suggested as much, but Frank just scoffed and started burrowing straight down, like a miniature drilling machine.

“We can cuddle under it just as easily,” he pointed out, and whatever, Gerard was tired. He could survive one night sleeping like barn cats.

Gerard didn’t actually do a whole lot to help dig the shallow hole, but he did climb in obediently and helped Frank bury them again, close enough to share in the blissful, redeeming warmth. There was nothing to say for a long while after they finished shifting around, accidentally kicking each other, and being generally rowdy, so Gerard’s mind wandered back to a previous topic: Frank’s strangely absent post-trauma stress. The truth of the matter was, he knew quite a bit about the exact kind of post-trauma stress Frank was apparently not going through.

“Frank?” He asked softly into the dark. It was a well-practiced tone, one that was intended to mean business, all traces of laughter gone from their conversation.

Frank picked up on this and rolled over to face him, their breath mingling and noses almost touching. Gerard stared straight into his eyes for several long seconds: it would have been strange in any other circumstance, but this was about bonding. About letting him know, nonverbally, that he wanted an honest answer.

Gerard continued. “I want to make sure you’re okay.” It was as vaguely worded as possible in hopes that Frank would just spill his guts without confining himself to one topic, but he had no such luck.

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” He asked, widening his eyes like he was genuinely unsure of the answer.

“Frank.” Repeating his name grounded Gerard, a lifeline in his sea of questions. “You almost got shot.”

He was met with narrowed eyes and half an inch of recoil, mistrust suddenly evident in furrow of Frank’s brow. Gerard sighed inwardly: he had a feeling this would be the reaction he’d get.

“That guy wasn’t actually going to shoot me,” Frank said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His attitude could be downright frustrating at times.

“You don’t know that, though.” He had to defend himself against another reproachful glare. “Frankie, he stole our stuff. We were _hitchhiking_ , and he stole our stuff. You’ve gotta have some massive balls to pull something like that.”

Frank didn’t respond for a moment. Gerard was obviously not getting across to him, but was already on the offensive due to the sheer amount of animosity Frank was radiating from every pore.

“Okay, so he was going to shoot me. What are you getting at?” He asked finally. Gerard grabbed one of Frank’s hands with both of his, curling it into a fist between his open palms. It was the most obtrusively non-hostile gesture he could think of.

“I just want to help.”

The irony manifested itself as a cold, sick feeling in his gut, because hadn’t that been Frank’s excuse mere minutes ago? Frank only wanted to _help_ by submitting himself to Gerard. For the greater good.

This wasn’t the same, though. There was no sacrifice on Gerard’s part; he wasn’t getting any kind of thrill from martyrdom. He just wanted Frank to be okay. “We can talk about it, you know. If you need to talk,” he said gently.

Suddenly, Frank yanked his hand away and rolled over to face the rafters. “I’m fine.” Short and sweet and so goddamn infuriating, because Frank wasn’t fine. There was no possible way he could be fine so soon after -- maybe he didn’t even know he was going crazy holding it in, but Gerard was going to _make_ him understand. It was time to break out the big guns.

“Listen. I know what you’re going through.” He cut Frank off preemptively with a raised hand. “I know, I know, nobody wants to hear that, but I’m serious here. I know _exactly_ what you’re fucking going through.” A breath, there, because this was going to be intense. Hopefully. Gerard thought it was intense.

“The same thing happened to me. When I was fifteen.” And he had Frank’s attention now, however skeptical it may have been.

“Okay. Well, first you have to understand that I used to get beat up a lot. There were these upperclassmen, a year ahead of me, and they basically started picking on me the minute they saw me. It was usually just stupid stuff: name-calling, stealing my textbooks. Unoriginal, uh, blowjob-related rumors in sharpie in the guys’ bathroom. Anyway, it got really bad toward the end of the year. They started actually... hitting me. I guess. And it wasn’t like I could just tell somebody, okay, because you know how it is. They’d get a few detentions or something and then come back stronger than ever, with an actual motive to beat the shit out of me. Well, I told Mikey, one night.” He didn’t mention his missing backpack, the tears or the black eye. “He was pissed. And that’s a big deal, because Mikey’s usually a pretty chill guy. I mean, I’ve stepped on like half his vinyl collection over the years and I don’t think he raised his voice onece. So I came home the next day, and he wasn’t on the bus. He just -- just like, comes home an hour late and says ‘I took care of it’. And fuck, Frank, you have no idea what that meant to me. Mikey was like the fucking _messiah_ ; I mean, I still fucking admire him for that. Anyway, he punched their ringleader in the face. Broke his nose. Fucking -- John Towell, was his name. That guy was an asshole.

“So that Friday, I was walking home from the record store. Worked late after school two days a week, walked home all the time. No big deal. But this time, I was cutting across a parking lot about halfway between work and home, and _bang!_ Came face to face with Towell’s fucking posse. Don’t ask me what the hell they were doing there, but they were seriously pissed off, and this one guy, Chase something, he--” Gerard cleared his throat-- “he had a pistol. A .357 Magnum, and I knew because the serial number was right in my goddamn face.”

And then Gerard was _there_. The memory was clear enough to be reality -- _was_ reality, for all intents and purposes, because he could see their faces clear as day, feel the penetrating wind, no match for his ubiquitous tattered hoodie.

“What’s up, Way?” Chase was saying, stupid southern drawl mingling with his couple of years in New Jersey in an entirely unappealing combination.

There were four of them: Chase, obvious second-in-command in John’s absence, two lackeys whose faces Gerard could barely tell apart, and a scrawny, seedy looking guy with close-cropped blond hair and beady eyes. He was usually the one holding Gerard down while the others tormented him.

“Leave me alone,” Gerard muttered, like it would do an ounce of good. No, if they had managed to intercept him on his way home, this was obviously not a spur-of-the-moment operation. There had been plans and research and Gerard thought he was going to be sick.

“Your kid brother wanted us to leave you alone too.” And Gerard couldn’t help but think that he sounded exactly like the villain in some sort of teen drama flick -- shit, they even had the five-guy lineup working for them -- but he had a feeling Chase wouldn’t get his comeuppance in the end. No wacky hi-jinks to be found, just muscle and malice and the little guy grabbing him by the collar and yanking him forward. Gerard was trembling forcefully enough to make his teeth chatter, and he silently cursed his body’s involuntary reactions: bullies were like mountain lions. They wouldn’t hurt you if you didn’t show them you were scared.

Except that wasn’t true. That was pure self-reassurance on Gerard’s part. Mountain lions probably didn’t give two fucks; they just ate you.

“He was just--”

“Shut the fuck up, Way. John was in the _hospital_. We should sue you assholes for everything you’re worth.” Chase paused, grinned ferally. “But we’re nice guys. It’s not really your brother’s fault, is it? He was just _standing up for you_ , right?”

Gerard had no idea how to respond, so he stayed silent.

“You’re the one running home and crying to Way number two. So we’re not gonna punish him for this little mix-up. Just you.” And that’s when he pulled it out of his back pocket, polished silver, maybe an antique. Fully functional. “See this? I want you to watch me load it.”

He did just that while Gerard stood wide eyed and absolutely motionless. Chase was deft and gentle, handling the thing like a lover and not breaking eye contact with for one second. Finally, he released the safety and pointed it squarely at Gerard’s forehead.

“On your knees, Way.”

One of the burly guys moved to shove him down, but Chase gestured for him to stop. “ _Gerard,_ ” he hissed.

Gerard was going to pass out. He was going to fall over right the fuck now and hopefully never wake up -- but Chase prevented that by grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to the ground.

“You fucking _listen_ when I _talk_ to you,” he spat. And Chase started pacing, circling around him like a goddamn supervillain about to explain the inevitability of Gerard’s death in plan-dissolving detail. “You think you can just waltz on in here with your fucking attitude and mess with him.” He was waving the thing around to emphasize every other word, making Gerard flinch every time the gun turned his way. “And I’m sure John’s gonna be real disappointed that he couldn’t do the honors himself, but baby, he sends his regards.”

Gerard had never been so terrified in his life, and it was simultaneously making him shiver and making him rash. Stupidly so, a slave to the anger welling up inside him.

“John can go fuck himself.”

There was a collective ‘ooh’ from the crowd, like Gerard’s emasculation was some kind of spectator sport.

Chase’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Hands behind your back,” he instructed, moving to get behind Gerard, facing the rest of the guys. Then there was sharp pressure on his scalp, Chase yanking his head back until they were once again eye-to-eye. He dragged the revolver up Gerard’s exposed throat, theatrical and obvious not for his own benefit. Gerard swallowed hard, still shaking violently, face streaked with tears he couldn’t remember crying. He was going to die. He knew it beyond all certainty, knew it with every fiber of his being. The only think keeping it from becoming some kind of transcendental experience was the cold metal now pressed to his head and Chase’s stupid fucking voice narrating like a sports announcer.

“Not so fucking cocky now, huh, Way?” And Gerard wanted to protest because when had he ever been _cocky_ , but Chase continued. “Baby brother’s not here to save you.”

Oh shit, Mikey. What would he think when they found the body? He would blame himself, of-fucking-course, and Gerard wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to off himself too. Poor, fucking innocent Mikey; his life would be completely wrecked. And that sent Gerard over the edge, because he couldn’t live with that burden on his shoulders for one second. His pride was down the drain in an instant.

“ _Please_ \--” he choked, squeezing his eyes shut against Chase’s collected smirk. “Fuck -- please don’t fucking do this -- _Mikey_ \--”

And they were laughing. Fucking laughing at him, and Gerard didn’t have the gall to stop them.

“Sorry?” Chase questioned, “what was that?”

Gerard couldn’t stop himself, so he gave them what they wanted, coughed and convulsed and fucking begged for Mikey’s sake. “I -- I don’t know what I did to you but -- but I swear I’ll never fucking look at you again if you just -- just. Shit, I’ll do anything--”

And then he hit the ground, hard, and they were still fucking laughing. Someone -- Chase, definitely Chase, aimed a few kicks at his ribs, a few at his gut, knocking the wind out of him and doing very little to stop the tears. He only caught a few words over the pounding in his head:

“Fucking pathetic.”

Gerard could still remember the penetrating ache, the asphalt under his knees, the cold press of the barrel against his skin like it had been mere hours ago. Everything was so overwhelmingly vivid that it took him a moment to return to himself: his present self, warm and exhausted and long past trying to prove a point. He opened his eyes.

Frank was inches from his face again, focused and intent. His breathing had shallowed to balance Gerard’s pained gasps.

Gerard half-groaned. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to go on like that. Uh. I just get carried away sometimes--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frank interjected. “You needed to talk about it, probably more than me. And -- no, listen,” he placed a comforting hand against Gerard’s chest. Maybe Gerard was hyperventilating, he didn’t know. “I’ll talk about mine if it makes you feel better. I just need to know something first.”

The fog at the edges of Gerard’s vision began to dissipate as he calmed himself, as Frank calmed him, until he was mentally present enough to respond. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Go for it.”

“Okay.” Frank hesitated, withdrew his hand once more. “And don’t get mad at me for asking, please; I just have to know. Um. I was wondering. Is -- is this a _thing_ for you?”

Gerard stared on uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“Like, I know you’re into being -- into... power, I guess? Is the whole execution-style thing doing it for you?”

“Oh. Okay. Of course you’d fucking ask that,” Gerard groaned. “Jesus.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Frank pointed out.

Seriously?

“Of course it’s not ‘doing it for me’! Oh my God, I almost _died_!”

Frank threw his hands up defensively. “I’m sorry, dude. It’s just that you were really getting into the moment. Like, breathing hard and everything. And don’t get me wrong; I’m totally okay with your kinks. Even that one. I just need to know ahead of time if you’re going to, like, fetishize what happened in the truck.” Gerard began to protest again, but Frank shushed him and dropped his voice to a low monotone. “And don’t be so quick to deny it.” He shifted closer under the mound of hay and rested a hand boldly against Gerard’s exposed hip, shirt having long since ridden up to his navel.

They were entering dangerous territory: he could tell by the way Frank tensed, anticipatory. “I’m just asking. What if you were the one with the gun?” Frank smiled mischievously, and the next words were soft enough to be barely audible. “What if that was Mikey on his knees, begging you not to kill him?”

He couldn’t stop himself from imagining it, not with Frank whispering close enough that he could feel the breath against his cheek. He was lost, had lost control of the situation, and Frank seemed to be picking up the thread. It was amazing how his tone could switch from inquisitive to overtly suggestive in seconds flat.

“Think about it, Gerard. He’s already kneeling. You could make him suck you off.” Frank shifted easily to a breathy falsetto. “ _I’ll do anything you want, Gee, just don’t shoot._ ”

It was so tangible, perhaps because he was already in the mindset. Mikey, hands clutched behind his back and glasses askew. He could fix them if he wanted, but wouldn’t dare move unless Gerard told him to. He groaned at that, self-control past the point of recovery.

Frank purred in response. “You know he’d enjoy it, too, because he’s _yours._ ” Gerard didn’t doubt the truth value of this statement for one second. “And he’d make it good because you have a fucking _gun_ to his head.”

The horrifying part was that he was already mentally planning the situation: how he could make it happen. He didn’t want to _kill_ Mikey, but if the gun wasn’t loaded, his brother didn’t have to know that.

Gerard’s eyes fluttered shut, but he could still feel the intense gaze boring into his skin. “Think about it,” Frank repeated. “Mikey could do that for you.” Quieter still. “Or it could be me.”

His eyes shot open again.

“Shit, Frank, is that what this is about?” And the spell was broken. Maybe it had come off as a little more disgusted than he had intended, because Frank’s face fell perceptibly.

“Oh, so it’s okay to wanna fuck your brother, but when it’s _me_ \--?”

“I’m sorry,” Gerard muttered, and he really was sorry, “that’s not what I meant. It’s just. It’s like, you get off on me getting off on objectifying Mikey.” Wow, that was a mouthful. “And that’s kind of weird.”

“Fuck you,” Frank retorted. “Not any weirder than your fucking museum of crazy fetishes.”

Gerard rolled his eyes dramatically. “I thought you liked my crazy fetishes!”

You can only say the word fetishes so many times in a conversation before you have to stop and decide if you really want to be having said conversation. Gerard analyzed his words.

“Wow, are we really arguing about this?” He asked at last.

Frank opened his mouth to speak but paused, pulling a hilariously thoughtful expression. “Um. I guess so.” And he smiled apologetically, black fringe flopping into his face. Gerard laughed in disbelief.

“Shit, Frankie.”

“Shit, Gee,” Frank said, wrapping an arm around Gerard’s waist and pulling him close, burying his face in Gerard’s shoulder.

They spent several moments like that, just holding each other and reveling in the combined warmth of their bodies and the surrounding insulation. Frank only spoke after he laced his fingers in Gerard’s hair and began working it into manipulable strands, making Gerard’s scalp tingle.

“Full of hay,” was Frank’s only comment. Gerard hummed softly in agreement: it was okay, just another reason to play with his hair during the day. He had almost drifted off to sleep when Frank spoke again: “Can we stop fighting? I really just want to have sex with you again.”

Gerard snorted, because at least he was being honest. “It’s been like a day.”

“Yeah, well, I miss it. We don’t have to do crazy shit if you don’t want to.”

“Not now,” Gerard said.”

“Not now,” agreed Frank. “Let’s just... take it as it comes?”

Maybe the situation called for a little more debate, but Gerard was tired. Besides, he kind of missed the sex too.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Take it as it comes.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

Manic Oppressive was pretty much the shittiest pseudo-punk band that Belleville had to offer -- maybe even the shittiest pseudo-punk band _anywhere_. They were also the only band the played the venue within walking distance of Mikey’s house with any frequency, so he was at every one of their shows. It wasn’t about the music anyway -- and shit, he never thought he would use those words in a sentence together, but there you have it: Mikey wasn’t listening to Manic Oppressive because he liked their music. He liked the people who liked their music: guys with nose rings and girls with hair dyed and re-dyed until it had the approximate texture of dry grass. Plus, shitty bands always had the best mosh pits.

The venue was less of an actual performance space and more of an abandoned warehouse turned bar, probably unlicensed, definitely unsanitary. Still, somebody had put work into the place: there was a stage made of plywood and stacked wooden pallets, under the intense gaze of a single, blinding spotlight. This was the only light source, which left most of the place non-illuminated. Druggies congregated in the darker corners, drunks on mismatched stools along the far wall. Everybody else was front and center, pressed up against what passed for guard rails and slamming into each other, and it was beautiful.

Okay, Mikey wasn’t going to lie to himself: he had never once exited a mosh pit _without_ a boner. It was just this sea of people, up against you with no boundaries to speak of -- you got fucking manhandled, too, especially when you were as easy to push around as Mikey was. That’s not to say he didn’t fight back, didn’t throw himself into the crowd with an opposing if not equal force, but mostly Mikey let himself get roughed up. Whatever, if you didn’t leave the pit with a few bruises, you were doing it wrong. It was easy, and it was natural, and it was escapism, just giving himself over to the music and the mass of strangers surrounding him, being helped up and pushed right back down again.

Normally, he didn’t say a word until he was at the edges of the room, usually chatting up some chick over awful beer, but that particular night, someone caught his eye. Okay, yeah, it was the eyeliner again -- the guy was wearing massive amounts of eyeliner. It was different this time, though, because the makeup only drew him in. The guy kept him there, literally.

Mikey didn’t even provoke it, just made eye contact for a split second and suddenly he was prey. There were hands on his ass, pressing the two of them so close that he could see the guy’s mascara clumping. He just rolled with it -- rolled into it, because if this dude was grabbing his ass, it was Mikey’s God-given right to grind in the middle of the dance floor. He barely had his hands on the guy’s shoulders before they were ripped apart again and he was halfway across the room. It only took a few minutes of maneuvering to find the guy again, closer to the edge of the crowd this time. Mikey got right up behind him and attached himself with arms around the waist. And okay, maybe there was some more grinding. A lot more grinding. _Maybe_ Mikey was thirty seconds aways from coming in his pants when the guy turned around and grabbed him by the wrists, dragged him to the nearest wall. Whatever. You were weird if you _didn’t_ come in your pants in a mosh pit. Probably.

“Pete,” said the guy, pinning his wrists above his head. “Remember it, bitch; you’re gonna be screaming it later.” And oh fuck yes, he knew this guy had been a good choice. The eyeliner didn’t lie.

And so Mikey put on a show: writhed under his grip, tried to twist free. When Pete bit him, he bit back. That didn’t last long, though, because he was already ridiculously close to the edge, and Pete could obviously sense that. He pulled back gracelessly and removed his thigh from in between Mikey’s legs, leaving him gasping for breath. They locked eyes again as soon as they were far enough apart for that to be physically possible, and Pete was still so collected. Mikey felt fucking wrecked already.

“Come on,” Pete said, leaning in just enough to be heard over the wall of noise. “You can do it.” He worked his hand slowly through Mikey’s hair. At first, Mikey had no clue what he was talking about. Pete was just staring at him, barely touching him, but the sheer force of his presence was intense enough to match physical sensation. “Come on,” he hissed again, and then it hit Mikey full force. He didn’t even consider touching himself, didn’t fucking need to when Pete tightened the grip on his hair, because _oh shit oh shit oh shit_ , Mikey was coming.

There was silence for a moment, definitely not in the venue, but in Mikey’s head. Wow, that had been... impressive? He was still pretty goddamn confused, and there were probably people staring, but it didn’t matter all that much because this dude was fucking _amazing_.

“Oh God,” he choked out as soon as he could form words. Mikey had something important to say, he was sure of it, but was having trouble wrapping his brain around the concept of full sentences at the moment. He did know that he didn’t want Pete to leave, so he grabbed the guy’s waist again and kissed him. Tried to kiss him. Their faces just kind of smashed together, but the thought was there. Only then did he remember what he wanted to say, because he was pretty sure he would literally die if Pete let go of him. “We should... we should get out of here,” Mikey panted, trying his best to stay suave after losing it less than halfway through the set.

Pete chuckled in response. “I’ve got an apartment. Just don’t be surprised if my roommate--” but Mikey kissed him again and began shoving his way to the exit. Pete’s roommate could sit in the corner and play Mario Galaxy; he didn’t fucking care as long as he and Pete could take off their clothes sometime in the near future.

~

Pete’s apartment was probably the cleanest place Mikey had set foot in that year, which was honestly not a difficult title to claim. There was a coffee table with only like, one fucking stain on it, and he could actually see parts of the carpet under his feet. There were three rooms: bathroom, bedroom, and living/eating/everything else room. The whole place was done up in linoleum and cheap wood, creaky in all the wrong places. Not that Mikey noticed any of this in his unrelenting quest to find the bed.

“Slow down there, kid,” Pete laughed when Mikey found his target and began immediately divesting himself of clothes. “I don’t even know your name.”

He rolled his eyes at this, though it wasn’t visible under the shirt he was pulling over his head. “Mikeyway,” he mumbled distractedly.

Pete smirked as he adjusted himself at the foot of the bed. “Like, seriously? Wanna try again?”

“Mikey. Way,” he gritted out, starting work on his jeans. Wow, fuck Pete, he wasn’t even pretending to help.

“Cool,” said Pete. “Wanna tell me about yourself, Mikeyway?”

Fuck Pete a billion times; they were getting naked. To have sex. This was not the time for personal inquiry. Mikey kept his cool though, because above all, he was aloof. That shit took work, okay? It was fucking hard to be apathetic. “What, you want my sexual history? Hang on, I think I have a smiley face sticker from the STD clinic around here somewhere.”

“Not _history_ per se, but if you want to tell me what you like,” Pete said, unfazed.

Whatever, if they were going to be all blunt about it, Mikey could one-up him there.

“Being on bottom. Being objectified. Humiliated. Hurt.”

He honestly had no clue if any of that was true, considering most of his encounters thusfar had involved none of the above, but that’s what he _thought_ he might be into. Maybe. Hopefully Pete was good at this shit.

“Okay,” washis simple reply. Mikey waited for something else, some other instruction or line of questioning, but none came. It was only then that he realized he was naked save for his briefs and Pete was still fully clothed. He started to complain and was immediately silenced by a finger to his lips. Mikey resisted the urge to bite it. “One thing, and then we can talk about this,” Pete continued. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

“...Yes?”

Pete glared at him. “It’s something that you say if stuff gets to be too much. You can make everything stop and you can leave, if you want, or we can just have normal sex, or whatever. Yours it ‘watermelon’.”

“What the actual _fuck_?” Mikey demanded, incredulous. “Why does mine have to be watermelon? That’s literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I was just at a fucking _Manic Oppressive_ concert!”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

He thought about it, hard enough to wrinkle up his nose a little bit. Then it hit him and he couldn’t help but smile. “Fuck you, mine’s going to be unicorn.”

It was obviously taxing his self restraint to resist bursting into laughter, but Pete somehow managed. “Okay, sure,” he hummed. “Yours can be unicorn. Just uh, don’t use it unless you have to, ‘cause you know, that means the sex _stops_.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” Mikey flapped his hand in a gesture he’d picked up from Gerard. “Now are you going to take your clothes off or what?”

“Nah,” Pete said. “I said we were gonna talk about this, didn’t I?” And he just fucking sat there, smirking and tracing the pattern on the comforter absently with one finger. Mikey had never felt more indignant in his life.

“Are you fucking--”

And yet again, he was cut off mid-sentence. “Don’t talk back. Answer truthfully, or this won’t work. You have to trust me.”

Mikey really had no reason whatsoever to trust him. From what he could tell, Pete was probably a fucking psychopath, or, failing that, the kind of guy who drank all the beer at parties even though he hadn’t pitched in to pay. He wanted to argue; he really fucking did, but Pete had this predatory glint in his eyes, and Mikey was down to his fucking briefs. There was no room for argument.

“Okay,” he agreed resignedly.

“Good. We’re starting with yes or no answers,” Pete informed him. What the fuck, that was probably the least sexy thing anyone had ever said _ever_. “Are you a virgin?”

Oh. Okay, things were getting awkward right off the bat. Mikey hesitated but Pete fucking glared at him, again, and that guy could be one scary motherfucker when he wanted.

“No,” he answered, glancing down at his feet.

“Good,” Pete said. He was almost expecting a congratulatory pat on the head for his efforts, but only got another question. “You ever sucked cock?”

And oh _God_ , it was like some twisted version of Jeopardy. And Mikey was shit at Jeopardy. When he used to watch it with Gerard, they’d both yell out their answers at the same time and he could tell whether he was right based on whether or not the answers matched.

“Yeah. Once.”

And he didn’t even get a word of praise for that one; Pete just barreled on. “Do you like it?”

“Maybe? I don’t know?” And there was that fucking disapproving glare again. Mikey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t hate it.”

“Okay, cool,” Pete said. Seriously, fuck him. This was like, the exact opposite of cool. He obviously picked up on Mikey’s annoyance, because he smiled. The guy had a lot of teeth. Wow. “You can calm down, man. That’s just my version of team building. Are you feeling the connection?”

Mikey was not feeling the connection. “Can I take your clothes off now?”

“No,” he replied, shifting so his legs hung off the edge of the bed, “but we can get serious. Come on, Mikey, I’ll start you off slow. Get on your knees.” He gestured to the floor at his feet, making his intentions crystal clear.

Honestly, Mikey wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore. He’d come home with Pete expecting something quick, rough, maybe unsatisfying, but now they were taking it easy and talking about it -- the fucking lights were on. It was weirding him out. Mikey dropped to the ground nonetheless. He tried to brace his hands on Pete’s knees, but Pete slapped them away.

“Behind your back.” The command sent shivers down his spine. “Okay,” Pete continued after he was sure said hands wouldn’t move, and he bracketed Mikey’s face with his palms, forcing Mikey to look him in the eyes. “Like I said, starting easy. Here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re gonna suck me off -- not even that. I’m gonna fuck your mouth and all you have to do is take it.”

And God, so completely earnest about it, and Mikey was already hard again. Pete brushed a thumb across his lower lip, over his cheekbones. Gerard used to do that, too, when Mikey was pliant and mostly asleep, sprawled across the basement couch -- he vaguely remembered the pads of his brother’s fingers on his face, dedicating the form to memory. Pete didn’t trace his collar or feel each individual rib, but Gerard’s residual touch remained. Mikey didn’t know what he did with those memories. Probably drew him over and over. The thought made his stomach twist.

“Open up,” Pete said, tone low and even. It was comforting, in a way, and made Mikey want to listen to him. So he did: he opened his mouth obediently and whined when Pete removed a hand to unzip his jeans. He didn’t bother to remove them completely, just shoved them off one leg and pulled Mikey closer by the shoulders. It was fucking intoxicating, almost unbearable, being this close yet unable to touch.

He suddenly realized that Pete was speaking, hand hovering above the bandage on his shoulder. “What’s this?”

The tone was almost accusatory, like it was Pete’s right to know. Mikey closed his mouth, didn’t answer.

“Something important, then?” And shit, he got straight to point. “It’s okay, tell me when you’re ready.”

Mikey didn’t get a chance to ponder the implications of the word ‘when’, because Pete’s boxers were long gone. That quick little interaction was probably going to come up again. It didn’t matter, though, because Pete’s dick was basically in his face, and wow, this was already different. Mikey hadn’t lied when he said he’d given blowjobs before, but that was once, behind one of the bars Mikey _didn’t_ frequent, fast and kind of disgusting. This was nowhere near disgusting. Hell, his mouth was fucking watering for it. To think he’d been reluctant for a second; Mikey fucking wanted this, and he made that much known with another desperate whine.

“Mmm,” Pete hummed, wrapping a hand around the shaft and stroking leisurely, just out of reach. “Be patient. You wanna beg me for it?”

It struck him as a weird thing to say -- he still wasn’t quite used to Pete’s strangely candid style of dirty talk -- but the truth was, Mikey _did_ want to beg for it. That fact in itself wasn’t exactly surprising, given his history of on-the-spot sexual realization.

He heard himself speaking -- if you could call it that -- but didn’t remember forming the words. “Please,” he panted, unsure of what exactly he was trying to say. “Need -- anything, Pete, holy shit,” and this was just ridiculous: he was giving himself over completely without so much of a promise of gratification in return, but he couldn’t help it. He needed Pete to take control for a little while, was already slipping into the mindset of plaything: something to be used and discarded, and he fucking loved it.

Pete apparently picked up on this too, the perceptive motherfucker, because he cupped Mikey’s face again and leaned down to croon in his ear: “So easy. I thought I’d have to break you first, but here you are, already in pieces. Hold still; you can have it.” And just like that, Pete’s cock was in his mouth, and Mikey had never been more content in his life.

It started slow, as promised, Pete holding Mikey’s chin with one hand and using the other for general guiding purposes, because while Mikey was cool with sucking dick, he was in no state to keep said dick in his mouth. That took _effort_. Instead, he just closed his eyes and took it, shallow at first, and lost himself in every minuscule sensation. More than anything, the head was heavy against his tongue, foreign but somehow perfect. It was love at first taste, like this was what Mikey’s mouth was meant for. When he tried to experiment a little, -- increase the suction, circle his tongue around the slit -- Pete grunted and grabbed his hair, and that was where the gentleness ended. Without warning, Pete shoved all the way in, bumping the back of his throat and pulling back, not quickly enough to avoid his gag reflex.

“Shh,” he soothed, stroking Mikey’s cheek with warm fingertips, thumb still braced against his jaw. “You’ve gotta relax, baby. Don’t think about it. Just breath through your nose.” Mikey squinted up at him through watering eyes and tried his best to mumble in acknowledgement, but it turned into a sort of wet groan halfway through. Pete smiled at that, the bastard.

The next few thrusts were deeper, just shy of his throat. It kept brushing against his pallet, which was downright uncomfortable: a tickling sensation that he couldn’t get rid of save by further closing his mouth.

“Keep it open,” Pete demanded sternly, but Mikey just couldn’t do it. He felt like he was at the fucking dentist, being told to open wider every couple of seconds even though he couldn’t, even though it was a stupid reflex and he was _trying_ , okay?

“Keep it _open_ , Mikey, or I’ll keep it open for you,” he hissed.

Pete didn’t even give him a chance to redeem himself before he slid in further and grabbed Mikey’s face with both hands, pressing his thumbs into the space between his top and bottom back molars, forcing him to bite the insides of his cheeks. He had no clue what was going on at first -- was Pete using his own goddamn teeth against him, or what? But the confusion was gone an instant later: Pete was prying his mouth open. Of course. That was what you did to fucking _dogs_ to get them to loosen their grip, and shit, why was that an appealing thought? Mikey groaned again, in earnest -- couldn't help himself, because something clicked with the addition of Pete's fingers, and suddenly every point of pain was exactly what he needed. Pete didn't relent, either. If anything, he thrust harder, went deeper, danced with Mikey's physical thresholds, but it changed from something negative to something fucking incredible. His throat inexplicably became an erogenous zone, and every convulsion, every second he spent starved for air went straight to his cock. He was drooling and he knew it, but he was so completely gone that he couldn't make himself care.

"Mm, that's it," Pete moaned, digging his thumbs in harder with every syllable. "Shit, Mikeyway. I knew you had it in you. Jesus. I wish you could see yourself right now, choking on my cock and fucking loving it."

Mikey obviously couldn't respond, so he just moaned his approval and tried to breath. Pete liked that -- of course he would -- so he kept on talking and Mikey kept on doing his job. "That's it, baby, fucking -- ah, come on, deeper. I know you can take it." And he tightened his grip and _pushed_ , further than Mikey thought he could handle. When he pulled back, sweet relief, it was only to slam in again. Pete was getting close: he could tell by the strain in his voice and by the loss of control over his language, carefully picked words replaced by stream-of-consciousness-style rambling. Mikey honestly liked it better that way.

"Oh my God, your fucking mouth. Never wanna stop -- holy shit, baby, that's it. Just fucking take it." And Mikey all but growled in appreciation, silently begging him to let himself go. "So pretty on your knees, Mikeyway, letting me fucking use you like a cheap whore. Oh, you love it, don't you? Being treated like fucking dirt? Such -- ah, fuck, -- such a little cockslut," he panted, scrabbling at the back of Mikey’s head, attempting to pull him closer and hold his mouth open at the same time.

The entire time, part of Mikey -- the sane part -- was completely stunned: he was _getting off on this_. Why, he had no fucking idea, but apparently that was just how his screwed-up libido worked. The rest of Mikey -- the part with Pete’s dick shoved down his throat -- was too far gone to care.

“Jesus, don’t move, _don’t fucking move_ ,” Pete groaned, and Mikey couldn’t have moved if he wanted to, because the hands were gone from his face in favor of grabbing his head in earnest, pulling him closer than he previously thought possible and holding him there, and God, he could feel Pete coming in pulses down his throat. It was a sensation he never thought he would experience, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, because everything came down to derision: he liked it because it was a sign of ownership: proof that, in their isolated little world, Mikey had no control over the situation. Nothing that happened could ever be his fault.

His pseudo-philosophical ramblings were cut short when Pete pulled out, still leaking into his mouth. _Eww._ He moved to spit on the sheets, but Pete stopped him with a hand over his mouth.

“Swallow.” And Mikey did, reluctantly.

 _Why,_ that defiant part of him asked? Because Pete had told him to. There was the answer, the root of the fucking issue: Mikey just needed somebody to make the more trivial decisions for him, and he could admit that. The voice inside his head shut up.

~

Frank was bored. Like, super bored. The kind of boredom that couldn’t be expressed in a single syllable, so when he announced to the van--

“Guys, I’m bored,”

\--it came out more like ‘guyyyyys, I’m boooooored.’

“Six more hours, buddy,” Ray called from behind the wheel, shaking his head sympathetically. Frank was momentarily entertained by the way his hair bounced from side to side, but that was short lived, and he slumped down in his seat. Then he sat up again because the seatbelt was digging in under his chin.

The novelty of van travel wore off pretty fast, especially since neither he nor Gerard had any of the various electronic devices they brought to keep themselves entertained. Not that listening to Ray’s music wasn’t entertaining; no, Frank could listen to music for hours on end, just scrunching up his face intently and over-analyzing every note. It was just hard to get into it when Ray and Gerard were conversing so easily, breaking his concentration. That wasn’t even fair, either: Frank got bored after about twenty minutes of listening to anyone, but the other two just rambled back and forth with no end in sight. He joined in occasionally, when a topic sparked his interest, but that wasn’t enough. He needed to be constantly doing something, anything but sitting around and staring at the back of Ray’s head.

“I have to pee,” he announced in a last-ditch effort to stretch his legs.

Gerard wasn’t fooled. “No you fucking don’t; we stopped like half an hour ago.” And it was true, they did stop like half an hour ago as per Frank’s request. Frank took care of business and then proceeded to run in circles behind the gas station for a good five minutes, Gerard yelling halfheartedly about his bronchitis from the safety of the parking lot.

“I have kidney problems?” Frank bargained. That was semi-plausible, right? There was something wrong with basically every other part of his body, so why not his kidneys? Gerard squinted at him to assessed the statement for truth value, and Frank suddenly had the overwhelming urge to press B, but any mental button-mashing was in vain:

“You just want to get out of the car,” he accused.

Frank rolled his eyes and conceded with a drawn-out “Fucking yes, I wanna get out of the car!” And he grabbed Gerard by the shoulders and shook him as much as the seatbelt would allow. “ _Six more hours_!” He emphasized, but Gerard just crossed his arms and turned away, leaving him to his own devices.

Frank had two devices: sleeping and moping. He had been employing the former for the better part of the trip, and was so wired that it was now out of the question. So he moped, loudly and with fervor, much to Gerard’s increasing dismay. That lasted a good twenty minutes before Frank gave up and slumped down in his seat yet again, not caring about the seatbelt. That thing could go fuck itself. He thrashed around for a minute until it was safely behind his back, and then shifted far enough down to basically lay on the seat, shirt riding up over the waist strap.

“You’re going to die if we crash, you know,” Ray commented, not even bothering to glance at him in the rear-view.

“Youre _face_ is gonna die if we crash. Motherfucker.”

Gerard simultaneously glared at him and jumped to his defense. “Ignore him, he’s just got cabin fever.”

“You can’t get cabin fever in a _van_ ,” Frank snapped. He was in a bad mood, okay? He could snap at people if he wanted.

And so he sat there and fumed for a few minutes when nobody replied. He was fucking bored. To the point where he was seriously considering asking Gerard to jerk him off right then and there -- actually, he pondered that thought for awhile. Apparently he was in the exact wrong mood to ponder, because he was too pissed off to see anything wrong with the plan, and so, being the little shit that he was, Frank fucking went for it.

“Gerard?” He asked with his best puppy eyes. Gerard swiveled his chair to look up at Frank through his hair, and once he was sure that all attention was on him, Frank continued. “Can we have sex? Like, right now?”

Gerard just stared at him for almost a full minute. Okay, yeah, maybe that had been a mistake in retrospect. Frank had never been very good at filtering what came out of his mouth.

While they glared at each other, Ray took the opportunity to speak, reluctant and a bit incredulous: "Uh, for real?"

And that snapped Gerard out of his stunned silence. "Jesus Christ, cat's out of the fucking bag. What the _fuck_ , Frank?" He looked like he was about to punch something, probably Frank, but luckily Ray intervened.

"No, dude, it's cool! Don't flip out." Yeah, _Ray_ was the one who should be mediating. "I don't have anything against your... uh, lifestyle."

Frank jumped at that opening: "Yeah, he doesn't have anything against our lifestyle!"

"Oh my fucking God," Gerard muttered, banging his head against the seat. He turned to Ray and waved his hands around to suggest... something, Frank wasn't sure what, but he was obviously indignant about it. His wild gesturing was met with only a raised eyebrow on Ray's part, so he dropped his hands in defeat. "I'm surrounded by lunatics." A contemplative pause. "You and I need to have a serious talk about privacy later."

He didn't look very serious, though, more on the verge of laughter/tears/some other sort of emotional breakdown, so Frank tried to lighten the mood. "Sharing is caring!" he grinned. Gerard did punch him then: lightly, on the shoulder. He made a show of rubbing the spot in false pain.

"I don't know what pre-school you went to," he muttered.

Frank gave Gerard a minute to get over himself, the drama queen. Because whatever, Ray was cool with it; it wasn't like he was going to throw them out on their asses.

"So..." he said at last. "Can we?"

And that was the wrong move. "Are you fucking kidding--" Gerard fumed, but Ray cut him off.

"The bang blinds are not an invitation," he pointed out, waving a hand in the universal gesture for 'I don't want to know'. "At least wait until I'm out of the van, please?"

Frank sighed, long and loud, and Ray's tone softened. "You wanna play the alphabet game or something?" he asked, keeping one hand on the wheel and leaning back to assess Frank's mental state. Frank's mental state was currently stuck between angry and horny.

"What the hell is the alphabet game?" He scowled. "That sounds like something my mom would come up with."

Gerard, apparently over himself, leaned over to stage-whisper conspiratorially in Ray's ear. "He's at that age where driving games aren't 'cool' anymore."

"Oh my God!" Frank said, throwing his hands up as best he could in the cramped space. "Oh my _God_ , I just want a fucking handjob. Is that too much to ask?" And Gerard glared at him like, _yes it is_ , but Ray intervened again.

"I'm sorry there's not a lot to do here. I guess you could mess around on my guitar if you want?"

It took Frank's brain a second to switch gears, but when it did, he perked right up. "You have a guitar?"

Ray rolled his eyes. He couldn't see it from his vantage point in the back, but Frank knew it happened. "Of course I have a guitar. Dude, have you been listening at all?"

"Well, yeah, I just didn't know you had it with you..."

"Under the table, dude. Look."

Frank looked, and it was indeed under the table, protected in a sturdy hard-shell case. "Shit," he laughed, because shit! Ray had a guitar! This was like fucking Christmas! The expression on his face must have betrayed his excitement, because Ray laughed at what Frank assumed was his expense.

"Calm down, man. You're supposed to be pissed, remember?"

But fuck being pissed; Frank was already hoisting the thing onto his lap and unlatching the case with obliviously quick movement. Like unwrapping presents, he thought. Damn, Frank's metaphors were the best. He took a moment to admire the thing when he finally got it out.

"Epiphone Elitist," Ray informed him with just a twinge of smugness. "Mahogany, maple and rosewood."

Frank had no idea how that was significant, but he nodded approvingly nonetheless. All he cared about was the feel of it in his hands, the resistance of the low E and A between his fingers. The notes rang out loud and clear, and --

"Uugh," he groaned involuntarily.

"Yeah, probably needs tuning," Ray conceded. Frank could tune. He got to work on that right away.

"I didn't know you played," Gerard said quietly, one hand messing with his hair. No wonder it was always so tangled.

"Yep. Not _well_ , mind you. It's just a hobby. I have a Les Paul at home." He neglected to mention that her name was Lily or that he slept with her on the pillow next to him when he had nightmares. Whatever, there was nothing wrong with a guy loving his guitar.

Gerard didn't reply, just nodded and watched Frank's fingers intently as they twisted the pegs millimeters at a time. Frank didn't mind people watching him play, usually, but when he was finally satisfied that everything was in tune, he hesitated. Like, what if Gerard and Ray thought he sucked? Frank didn't think he sucked, not too badly at least, but Ray was in a band and Gerard was a music enthusiast at the very least. It was way different than playing in front of the fireplace while his mom cleaned. Finally, nervously, he struck a few chords and launched into something he'd been working on, because scales were important but by no means impressive. It started out stiff and robotic, but when he got used to Gerard's nerve-wracking gaze, the music really started to flow.

It shaped itself into a medley of basically every song Frank could currently remember that didn't sound like shit on one guitar, with quite a bit of fucking around on arpeggios in between. Frank liked arpeggios. He wasn't exactly great at them, but they were fun, with the little roll-ish thing you could do with your ring finger on the minor. Nobody spoke, and it wasn't until later that he realized they were actually listening to him. Giving him space.

When he finally slowed down, ended on another minor arp, he let the last note ring out, in perfect harmony with the hum against the tires against the road. Only then did he look up.

Gerard was still staring. Frank blushed.

"Cool," Ray said at last, stealing a glance in the mirror. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. We used to have a music program at school but it got cut when I was in sixth grade."

Gerard rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded like 'fucking school boards. Cut the art and build a second gym,' but Frank ignored him.

"So I mostly pick stuff up by playing along with my records. And uh, we run a bed and breakfast, right? So whenever somebody who can play stays over, I try to get them to jam with me. There was this one dude -- I don't remember his name, huge fucking beard, -- who had an acoustic and could play like The Beatles' entire discography from memory. And you know they have a shitload of songs. Like five shitloads." And that gave Frank an idea: he picked out the first few chords of _I Want To Hold Your Hand_ before anybody had a chance to continue the conversation. Fuck conversation, Frank was on a roll!

He got really into it -- _really_ fucking into it -- dredging up every Beatles song he remembered and improvising when he forgot things, blending things together partway through. His enthusiasm bled throughout the rest of the van, until the sound of their collective foot-tapping, wheel-smacking, and finger-drumming could pass for actual percussion. Gerard started singing toward the end of _Hey Jude_ : just the ‘na na na’ part, absentmindedly but growing in power, and all hell broke loose. Suddenly the whole van was a cacophony of surprisingly in-key vocals, drowning out the poor unamplified guitar. They got pretty crazy, too, with Ray improvising a second guitar using only his voice and Frank initiating a few harmonies. And oh fuck, Gerard broke into this amazing, breathy falsetto to hit the high bit in _With A Little Help From My Friends_ , and Frank fucking lost it, laughing and missing like two whole chords. When he recovered, he ripped into some Misfits covers to regain his dignity, but Ray and Gerard just kept singing fucking seamlessly. He changed it up after that, cycling through anything that came to mind: Joy Division, some Stones, Hendrix (even though he was kind of shit at Hendrix), a few repeats. He caught Gerard off guard with some Beastie Boys, but to his amazement, Ray rapped his way through a good bit of _Sabotage_ before giving up and laughing along with the rest of them. Frank ended with a couple of random power chords that would have sounded really cool if he had an amp.

It was pretty goddamn fantastic how a little laughter completely flipped the mood in the van. Gerard leaned over and hugged him. Fucking _hugged_ him, ignoring the headstock poking into his shoulder and just burying his face in Frank’s hair, kind of nuzzling. When he pulled back, their eyes locked and for a second: Frank thought Gerard was going to kiss him -- there was that flash of utter adoration again -- but then it was gone and Gerard was ruffling his hair, re-adjusting his seatbelt. And then Ray kissed Frank instead, or he might as well have, because what he said next elicited just as much shock and excitement:

“Do you want to be in my band?”

It was out of the blue, completely unprompted. Ray was just looking at him in the mirror, happy and hopeful and Jesus, he was going to fucking crash if he didn’t keep his eyes on the road. Frank had no idea how to respond to that. It was like Ray had just fucking proposed to him or something. More significant than that, even, because Frank was of the firm belief that the bond between bandmates ran deeper than anything as mundane as love. Not that he didn’t want to say yes: he had never wanted anything more in his _life_. It was just... a big deal.

“I--” he started, and then cleared his throat. “Um. I don’t know. I mean, I need some time to think about it?” The grin was wiped off of Ray’s face in an instant. “No -- I do want to, seriously!” Frank backtracked. “It’s just, Gerard’s working through some problems right now. We’re uh -- we have to go back to Belleville.”

“We do?” Gerard asked at the same time Ray said, “I know where that is!”

There were confused glances all around, and then Frank tried to cover his ass: “Um. _I_ think we should go back to Belleville.”

“Are you guys a package deal or something?” Ray asked, eyes darting between the two of them.

“No!” Gerard blushed.

“Yeah!” Insisted Frank.

An awkward silence pervaded the air. Wow, more tension between him and Gerard. That was exactly what Frank needed.

Ray recovered fast, though, and proposed what he obviously saw as a solution. “That’s cool, we can just pick up our drummer and head to Belleville! There’s no itinerary or anything. Plus, Belleville is cool! They have _Manic Oppressive_!” Frank had no clue what that meant, but judging by the look on Gerard’s face, it probably wasn’t good. “Don’t worry, Gerard, you can be our manager or something. The cool kind who hangs with the band, though. Not one of those assholes who drives them around and buys coffee.”

“I don’t know,” Gerard started to say, “I’m not sure if heading back to Belleville is going to solve anything--”

“Sure it will!” Ray beamed, clapping him on the back with a little more force than strictly necessary. And to Frank’s amazement, Gerard didn’t protest, just slumped in his seat and wiggled around until Ray removed the hand from his shoulder.

More goddamn awkward silence, and what did his refusal to respond even mean? Was Gerard actually okay with the plan? Because Frank was totally okay with the plan; he was fucking down with it: this meant that he’d get to go to Chicago, be in a honest-to-God band, _and_ meet Gerard’s brother! And okay, maybe that last part made him a little nervous, but it was the excited kind of nervous. He imagined it would feel similar to meet your girlfriend’s parents. If your girlfriend was banging her parents. Okay, bad analogy. Whatever. The point was, Frank had kind of developed a dude-crush on Mikey Way solely from hearing about him, like anybody Gerard wanted to fuck, Frank wanted to fuck by extension. He sounded cool, okay? And there was always the possibility that it could be a huge letdown, but where was the fun in knowing ahead of time? There was none. No fucking fun. Fun-free zone; no fun allowed, motherfucker.

Anyway, this was progress: maybe Gerard was finally ready to confront his problems. ‘Problems’ meaning Mikey Way, and ‘confront’ hopefully meaning ‘have rough sex with, somewhere Frank can see’. Not that sex was all this was about. Just a good portion of it. Frank wanted to see Gerard happy, and unless he did something to resolve the issue, that was never going to happen. He’d just stay his normal, mopey, eyeliner-wearing self, and everything would suck. And okay, Gerard was probably like that all the time, and things didn’t exactly suck right _now_ , but that wasn’t the point. Uugh.

“You okay there, buddy?” Ray asked, probably concerned but Frank couldn’t really tell.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Awesome. When are we eating?” It wasn’t an _intentional_ subject change -- Frank was genuinely hungry, not for the first time in his life -- but it was treated as such: that is, with exasperation.

“Don’t know,” Ray said.

“Stop mooching!” Gerard hissed.

“Fuck you, I’m not mooching. He _offered_ to buy us food.”

“He offered once. That doesn’t mean he’s an all-you-can-eat money buffet.”

Ray snorted at that. “Hang on. First, that doesn’t even make sense. Are you eating the money? Like, why did you even stick the word money in that sentence? And second, we can eat if you want. It’s no big deal. Maybe we can find someplace to park for the night.”

“No more driving?” Frank asked hopefully.

“Not today,” Ray informed him. “If I try for another all-nighter, I’ll probably run us into a ditch.”

“And you’ll get eaten by coyotes,” Gerard added with a spooky finger-wave.

“Woah, hold the fucking phone! I didn’t know we had coyotes here!” And Frank was seriously freaked out. Getting torn to bits by crazy evil dog things and eaten alive was not high on his to-do list.

“I don’t think we do. Gerard’s just being an asshole,” Ray laughed, flipping Gerard the bird when he stuck out his tongue.

“You don’t _think_ we do,” Frank repeated, scrunching up his nose. “That’s a maybe.”

Ray cut all argument about coyotes short by returning to the topic at hand. “As I was _saying_ , we can sleep in the van. Only about four hours to go, so we can probably make it by noon tomorrow.”

Frank shrugged: that was fair. Any plan that allowed him to get out of the van and run around a little was fine in his book. Plus, sleeping! Maybe he and Gerard would have a chance to sneak off somewhere for blowjobs! Frank really did want to try the whole blowjob thing, and wow, it had been less than a week and he was already leaps and bounds ahead of everyone he knew in terms of sexual exploration. Frank and Gerard were the fucking Lewis and Clark of sexual exploration, sailing the river of Odd Fetishes and climbing the... uh, Mountains of Homosexuality, or something. Whatever, they were awesome. Sexual explorers. _Sexplorers_!

Damn, Frank should write his own dictionary.

“I should write my own dictionary!” he blurted out. Gerard just quirked an eyebrow and didn’t ask. Ray focused on driving, for once.

Frank squirmed around a little bit, and that felt nice, so he shook out his hair for good measure, letting the weight of it pull his head around in a circle. Then he realized that nobody was paying attention to him, and Frank was suddenly in an attention-seeking mood, so he stealthily unbuckled and tried to scale the back of Gerard’s seat. Frank was super stealthy. He was a fucking ninja.

Unfortunately, Ray was a ninja too. He caught Frank’s spastic wriggling out of the corner of his eye. “Get down from there and put on your fucking seatbelt. We’re almost to the next exit,” he said.

Frank lowered himself over the top so he could look at Gerard upside down. Gerard went cross-eyed but didn’t say anything, just smiled a tiny, enigmatic smile and kissed his forehead. Stealthily. Fucking van full of ninjas. Frank got back in his seat, but he couldn’t help but squeal, loudly, because that was the fucking cutest thing ever and he was in a pretty weird mood at the moment.

“Oh my God, Gerard, can you _control_ him?” Ray laughed, and Gerard just grinned and shrugged his shoulders.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard has a thing for his little brother. Mikey has a thing for pain. Frank has a thing for shortbread cookies and gas stations and okay, maybe he has a thing for incest too, if he's being honest with himself.

Unfortunately, the next exit offered no chance of refuge: just a gas station and a Waffle House. Frank was cool with the second option, but Ray was a horrible person who didn’t want pancakes for every meal. He waited for Gerard to back him up -- shot him a confusing little eyebrow-waggle thing, even -- but to no avail:

“I’m not in the mood for more breakfast,” Gerard said. “Besides, the parking lot’s tiny. They’re going to kick us out before sun-up.” And that was the end of the matter, no matter how much Frank pouted about it.

Two exits later, however, they hit a veritable goldmine: it loomed before them, huge and blueish and majestic, a temple to the gods of sleep. Frank would worship sleep gods. Sleep and blowjobs. Fuck, Frank could probably temp for the gods of sleep and blowjobs, when they were sick or whatever. Anyway: it was huge, it was awesome: it was a fucking Walmart.

“It’s a fucking Walmart!” Frank pointed out helpfully.

“Yep,” Ray agreed.

“But _why_?” Frank’s speech faculties weren’t exactly up to par, but it got the point across.

Ray rolled his eyes. “We’re coming up on Toledo. Big city. Lots of Walmarts.”

“Glad somebody knows where we are,” Gerard snorted, then glanced around to take in the others’ disapproving looks. “No, I’m not being sarcastic! Seriously, be glad nobody’s letting me drive.” He assured them, flapping his hand for emphasis.

There was laughing all around, but Frank stopped abruptly. He had the best idea ever.

“Holy shit, Ray!” He interrupted, trying to flail happily and undo his seatbelt at the same time. “Do they have Funyuns at Walmart?”

Gerard groaned and shook his head, but he had already lost. “Probably,” Ray nodded amicably. “Want some?”

The noise Gerard made was strangely reminiscent of the sound your stereotypical videogame protagonist made while being eaten alive.

“Ignore him; he has some kind of Funyun hatred thing going on,” Frank said, and levered the back door open. Gerard was carefully explaining why he hated Funyuns, complete with extravagant hand gestures, but fuck that. Frank skipped off toward the sliding doors.

To understand Frank’s irrational awe of the entire Walmart franchise, one must first realize that the closest thing Dogwood had to a Walmart was the Quik Mart, and that resemblance stemmed only from the automatic doors. Frank had been to Walmart before, of course -- there was one a town over -- but it was a treat. And it was nothing like this outer-Toledo monstrosity: no, this was a Walmart Supercenter. Bigger, brighter, and packed to the brim with more useless crap than you could shake a stick at. Frank should know; shaking sticks was turning out to be a new favorite passtime of his.

He reached the doors a full minute before the Gerard and Ray, because they were old and slow and Ray had parked way the fuck in the back of the lot. Probably to avoid detection, but still. The dudes at Walmart didn’t get payed enough to patrol the parking lot. Anyway, he reached the doors and executed a totally sweet, full-body Jedi-wave, because these doors were fucking huge and required proper respect. Plus, Gerard wasn’t watching. And he really didn’t care about looking like a dork in front of Gerard anymore; hell, Gerard was a bigger dork than Frank.The doors slid open -- damn, that never got old -- and Frank scampered inside, breathing in the intoxicating smell of plastic and citrus-scented cleaning product. There was a fucking entrance hall, with vending machines and those little things where you stuck a quarter in the slot and got a foam bracelet in a plastic egg. Frank fucking loved those things! Sometimes, he poured water in the little eggs and drank out of them, just for the hell of it.

And there was a little dude in a navy vest, too: one of the infamously underpaid greeters. As Frank approached him, he perked up. "Welcome to Walmart!" Said the greeter. "Commercialism at its finest!"

Huh. Okay, that was kind of a weird thing for a greeter to say, but Frank didn't consider himself an expert on the subject. Maybe he was really disillusioned. At least it caught his attention? The guy was a little taller than him, dark hair brushed into his face and a faded plaid shirt under his vest. There was a smiley-face sticker on his forehead.

"That's a cool sticker," Frank commented, and the guy stared him down levelly. Jesus, that was pretty creepy. Also kind of entrancing, if he was being honest with himself. He looked like Gerard without his eye makeup.

"Yeah," he drawled. "You want one? You can have one." He groped blindly around on a tiny desk behind him, more of an end-table than anything, and emerged victorious: "Hell, you can have the whole roll. Take it."

Frank was too bemused to do so, but that was okay, because the guy grabbed his hands and pressed the roll tightly between them, cradling them in his own hands like some kind of saint. Their eyes locked again. It was like he was physically holding Frank still with his freaky, deep-shit gaze. “Think about it. This is one incident, just between you and me, but what if the whole world could operate on the same principals? If you don’t need something, don’t horde it away; give it away. Society might collapse, or it might bring about utopia. The thing is, we’ll never really find out. Because it’s ingrained in human nature, this inherent greed. It’s in you, and it’s in me, and it’s completely unstoppable.”

“Uh.” And Frank wasn’t sure he’d ever been more confused in his life. “That’s. Uh,” he stuttered helplessly, eyes darting rapidly from his feet to the crazy greeter. “Do they pay you to say that?”

“How can greed be the human default? You’re giving him free shit,” Gerard said.

 _Holy fuck_ , Frank nearly jumped out of his skin: Gerard could obviously teleport. He was suddenly right fucking there, in his personal space, staring down the greeter with matching intensity. Frank knew that look, like shit was about to go _down_ \-- philosophical, confusing shit -- and he tried his best to stop said shit in its tracks.

'“Umm, Gee--” he began, but it was useless. Gerard was already on a roll:

“Because if one person can show generosity, just once in human history, than we can’t be incapable of it as a species.”

“Gee, you might not wanna--”

“I’m not saying we’re incapable of generosity,” the guy began, and then stopped himself. “Actually, I _am_ saying we’re incapable of generosity. If you think about it, there’s not a single generous act anyone can perform that isn’t completely self-serving. You donate to charity, you get the temporary satisfaction of doing a so-called ‘good deed’, and you can go on to be an asshole later, thinking it all evens out. I’m not giving this guy stickers for his sake; I’m doing it to prove a point. To make myself feel good,” the greeter continued. Holy shit, he literally could not stop pouting and it was _hilarious_ ; it gave him this funny little accent, like he was simultaneously slurring and over-enunciating. Frank didn’t know how that worked, but it was awesome.

“What about self sacrifice? If you actually die, there’s nothing to gain from the good deed,” Gerard rebutted.

“No -- see, you’re going about this wrong. You’re trying to prove it like a goddamn mathematical theorem, but that’s not how humans work. We can’t be broken down into ones and zeroes--”

“You’re mixing your metaphors.”

“That’s not the point. One exception doesn’t break the rule, not in an issue like this. It enforces it, if anything! What would we have to idealize if the possibility to do good didn’t exist? If we couldn’t take the concept and twist it to fit our own purposes? Then it wouldn’t even be an issue in the first place!”

Ray chose that exact moment to stride through the sliding doors, more wind-swept than half a dozen hair-product models combined. “Hey, don’t go running off like that, dude!” He grinned. “Gerard had to--” and there was a flicker of realization across his face, a disappointed scowl: “Oh. Okay.”

Frank shrugged apologetically, like _sorry, dude, I don’t have a clue either_ , but Ray could think on his feet. This guy was a natural-born mediator, seriously, because where Frank was afraid to break it up lest they cause a scene, Ray went straight for Gerard’s hair: yanked his head back harshly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Gerard Way, are you really arguing with a Walmart greeter?” He asked, grip tight even when Gerard attempted to twist away. Seriously, Gerard’s hair: handlebars? Bull horns? Frank admittedly got a kick out of the way he scrunched his face up when you pulled too hard, but he hadn’t realized the concept held such widespread appeal.

“Does my social status make me less worthy of conversation?” The guy chimed in. Ray jammed a finger in his face.

“Not helping,” he snapped. “Gerard, let’s go. You can talk to the employees on your own time, but right now we need food.”

They took a moment to simmer down. Ray let go and gave Gerard’s poor, abused scalp a chance to recuperate; Gerard rubbed his head; Frank shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. They all seemed to simultaneously realize that they were abnormally close -- when Gerard exhaled, the greeter’s fringe actually moved. Everybody took a step back.

“Okay,” Ray said at last, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go. Nice to meet you.”

The greeter shrugged and retreated back into his corner -- okay, it was actually just the space between the row of shopping carts and the wall, but he was trying damn hard to make it a corner. Frank covertly set down the roll of stickers. He wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for the little dude or not, though with the desperate glance he shot Gerard as they left, he was inclined to think that yes, he should.

Not that it mattered in the long run, because Ray was already dragging them away with one hand clasped tight around Gerard’s wrist and the other on Frank’s shoulder. “What the fuck was that?” He half whispered, half laughed.

Gerard shrugged. “Maybe he’s schizo or something. Or trying to get fired. I don’t know, he was making some good points!”

“Sorry,” Ray shot back. “Are we not satisfying your need for armchair philosophy?”

“I’ll satisfy your _mom’s_ need for armchair philosophy!” Frank added, bringing the conversation to its logical conclusion. He reveled in Gerard’s tiny grin. Motherfucker needed to smile more.

And so they split up and didn’t speak of the incident, Ray divvying up the mental list Frank didn’t know he had been keeping: windshield wiper fluid, soda, air freshener, socks, a cheap change of clothes, and various other seemingly unrelated items. “And Frank,” he said as an afterthought, “go grab yourself a bag of those onion things.” Frank saluted. “Gerard, I want you to get condoms.”

Gerard flipped his hair out of his face and laughed nervously. “Uh, seriously?”

“Seriously. Get twice as many as you think you’ll need.” His hand-waving motions were obviously meant to indicate that they should shut up, leave, _it’s not awkward if you don’t make it awkward._ Gerard made it awkward.

“For...?” And he nodded conspicuously in Frank’s direction.

“Uugh, Jeez, yes! And for any other... situation you find yourself in. Water balloon fight, I don’t fucking know. Just be safe.”

Gerard looked like he was about to say something else, so Frank grabbed his shirt and tugged him away to protests of “Dude, birthday present! Go easy on it!” Wow, he could be so clueless sometimes.

They walked the aisles for a few minutes, not bothering to split up due to laziness and maybe Frank’s fear of getting lost and abandoned. Gerard spent an inordinately long time picking out air freshener, (“I like the grapefruit, but don’t you think it would be a little overpowering?”) and the items in their basket only multiplied. How was Ray paying for all this junk? Poor guy was probably spending his life savings for this trip -- hell, maybe he was a slightly better prepared version of Gerard: roaming the northeastern states in search of happiness, or psychological validation, or whatever. Gerard with more cash and purer motives. Frank envied that life just a little, though he wouldn’t admit it: yeah, he was technically on the roadtrip with the other two, but it wasn’t the same: he =planned on going back, though whether or not his mom would want him back was a different matter. Maybe he really could stay in Chicago with--

Frank didn’t even want to think about it. Anyway, Gerard needed help picking out condoms.

"Extra large?" Frank smirked. Gerard rolled his eyes.

"I can't believe he's making me do this."

"Hey," he said sagely, leaning against the shelf on an elbow. Trying not to fall. "The dude's just trying to help. And y'know, he's probably right: we should have been using 'em from the start. _Gerard_."

"Shut up, you didn't mention it either."

"I'm not the experienced one here. I don't have _moves_."

"Grabbing a rubber isn't exactly a move," Gerard pointed out. "That stuff's entry level."

"Well _sorry_ if I didn't go to sex college." At that exact moment, Frank felt the shelf beginning to shift under his weight and tried to gracefully extract himself from the situation. He ended up knocking over half a rack of feminine hygiene products in the process, but whatever.

Gerard snorted. "Okay, first, get away from there before somebody gets a tampon jammed in their eye. And second, I never even went to _real_ college. I'd probably fail out of sex college after the first oral exam."

And it was Frank's turn to laugh, because Gerard's puns were awesome. Oral exam. Fucking gold, right there. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he said, and then started giggling again. Get it? Hard? Wow, they were seriously _so cool_. Dogwood's locker room didn't have shit on Frank and Gerard.

"Mmhm, sure. Now let's grab something and get out of here."

Frank nodded and had to stop himself from leaning on the shelf again. "Get the lubricated ones. My ass will thank you."

"Oh my god, fucking shut up about condoms!" Gerard groaned, like it was some huge, mortifying thing. He blindly snatched a pack off the shelf and tossed it in the cart along with the clothes and his precious air freshener.

Frank didn’t bother to respond, just pressed his lips together in a tight line and tried his hardest not to laugh. They walked together in silence. Frank tried to think of a conversation starter, a means to change the subject. Break the ice. And that made him think of bad pickup lines, because nobody ever used the phrase ‘break the ice’ in any other context. _Hey, Gerard, those are nice jeans. They’d look better on the floor next to my bed._ He almost said it, too, but then got caught up mentally listing everything wrong with that statement: Frank didn’t really have a bed, to start, and he actually quite liked Gerard’s jeans on his body. The way they clung to his hips and left nothing to the imagination; everybody in Walmart was now acutely aware that Gerard had an enormous dick, and Frank suspected that he liked it that way.

And that got Frank thinking about Gerard’s dick, and that in turn made him stare at Gerard’s dick. That was probably weird, though, so he looked away immediately: at the shelves, at his feet. Was that even weirder, not looking? Seriously, the thing was pretty much on display. How could anyone not look? So Frank stared at Gerard’s dick some more, and then looked up again when Gerard stopped in the middle of the aisle.

“Dude,” he asked, hands on his hips and sassier than all of the Village People combined, “what the hell are you doing?”

Frank glanced back at his feet ashamedly. “Um. Not looking at your dick?”

Gerard rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Wow.” He laughed abruptly, high in his throat, and Frank possibly wanted to have sex with Gerard’s voice, just a little bit. Like, if that was possible. Maybe he already had? Blowjobs were pretty much the closest you could get to fucking somebody’s voice. Whatever. Gerard’s voice was fucking pretty, was the point Frank was trying to make here. “Fucking wow. Dude, Frankie, you can stare at my dick if you really want to.”

He was confused. He didn’t want to stare at Gerard’s dick. Like, okay, maybe a little? It wasn’t something he thought about on a regular basis; it just happened, inevitably, like rain or sales tax. He barely noticed.

And so he forwent an answer once again, choosing instead to stare at his feet and ignore the way Gerard started intentionally swaying his hips when he walked. Slutty motherfucker. Anyway, Frank’s feet were sufficiently distracting, with the way his vans slapped against the white linoleum/tile/whatever the fuck that stuff was underfoot. It was loud, and he could make it louder by stepping heel-first, feeling his Achilles stretch. Frank loved his Vans; he really did. It had taken a lot of convincing on his part before his mom warmed up to the idea, because brand names were _expensive_ , and couldn’t Frank just be happy with his second-hand trainers? No, he fucking couldn’t, but that was okay because his mom had eventually caved and bought him some awesome checkerboard lace-ups, and he _loved_ them.

He’d progressed from stomping and sole-rolling to something dangerously near tap-dancing by the time they found Ray loitering by the coolers, examining the pop on the opposite shelf. He glanced up and smiled at their approach.

“Hey! Coke or Sprite?” He asked, gesturing over his shoulder at the mosaic of red and green packaging.

“Dew?” Frank asked tentatively. It wasn’t often that the craving struck, but he needed some fucking caffeine and sadly, there was no coffee maker in the van. He wouldn’t settle for that instant bullshit either.

Ray nodded agreeably and hoisted two twelve-packs into the cart, one of Mountain Dew and one of Coke.

“Cool,” he said. “You good, Gerard?” But Gerard wasn’t paying attention: he was finger-drumming against his thigh, stealing the occasional furtive glance at the coolers behind them. Frank furrowed his eyebrows.

“Dude, you okay?”

“Huh?” Gerard asked, seeming to focus his eyes and clear his head. “What? Yeah, I’m cool. Can we go?”

“Uh,” Frank deliberated, glancing at Ray for assistance.

“Yeah, sure, this is everything.”

They left for the checkout, Gerard slipping away conspicuously.

~

“You’re back!”

The greeter’s face lit up instantly. It was almost comical: his smile seemed completely out of place on such gloomy features. The fringe didn’t help.

“Yep,” Gerard said, sidling causally up to him and leaning against the wall. “The guys are checking out.” He gestured to where Ray and Frank were waiting in line, ridiculously long for this time of night. Frank caught his eye and Gerard waved.

“Cool,” the greeter said. “People usually leave through the other exit once they talk to me.”

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh on not. This guy was strange to say the least; probably currently or at least recently high.

“I’m Gerard,” he offered, at a loss for words. He’d been so confident approaching this dude for the second time, so sure that their conversation would provide him with some relief or at least distraction, that he’d forgotten to figure out what he wanted to say.

“Conor,” said the greeter. There was an awkward silence during which Gerard scoured his near-infinite supply of useless knowledge for something to say, fucking anything, but that proved unnecessary. Conor took the opportunity to lean closer, obviously not a subscriber to any doctrine regarding the importance of personal space.

His voice dropped to something resembling a whisper, slightly louder, slightly deeper, somehow more private in its connotations. “Wanna know a secret?” He asked, bracing an elbow against the wall so that their hands were almost touching. Gerard wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded. If he was a little breathless, who could blame him? Conor seemed like the kind of guy you didn’t notice unless he wanted you to, but when you noticed him, _damn_ did he fill up a room. “I got this vest at Salvation Army. I don’t work here.” Gerard raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, so Conor continued. “I actually just stand here and talk to people about the evils of our consumerist culture.”

Gerard couldn’t help but smile at this, partially because he was so honest about it but mostly because he’d just used the phrase ‘consumerist culture’ seriously.

“What?” Conor asked defensively, crossing his arms. “They’re selling bowties for your dog over there. Tell me we don’t live in a consumerist culture.”

“No,” and Gerard threw his hands up, “I’m not denying it. Hell, I’d join you if I wasn’t on the road.” And there was a good subject; that was easy, so he just ran with it, not even waiting for Conor to ask. “See, I’m originally from Belleville. I was going to New York City -- I’m kind of on a soul quest? I’m finding myself, y’know, artistically. But then I met this guy -- Ray, with the hair? And he’s in a band and going to Chicago to pick up his drummer. And he asked my-- Frank, the other guy, to play guitar. So we’re going to Chicago now.”

He glanced up for some minutes-too-late confirmation, but Conor wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at Gerard’s crotch. Jesus Christ. Gerard was about to say something, though he wasn’t sure what exactly, when Conor’s head snapped up. Wow, his _eyes_. Gerard couldn’t look away.

“Frank’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

It was so abrupt -- the first time anybody had said it out loud. Gerard just gaped for a moment, because how the hell was he supposed to answer that? How the hell had Conor _guessed_ that?

“Uh,” he floundered, because what the _fuck_ , “we don’t -- I mean, what would even make you think that?”

Conor sighed almost imperceptibly. “The way he looks at you. It’s easy to tell. Like he wants to hold your hand but is afraid to ask.”

Fucking poetic assholes and their crazy gaydars. Gerard huffed in a cross between indignation and residual disbelief. “He’s not my -- okay, well, we do. Uh. We do fuck,” and there was really no point denying it, “but he’s not my boyfriend!”

For a long moment, Conor stayed silent and Gerard receded into his own mind, once again the last place he wanted to be. Frank wasn’t his boyfriend, not really. They were close, yeah: as close as two dudes who’d known each other for less than a week could be, and they did screw on a semi-regular basis, but that didn’t make them _boyfriends_. Maybe friends with benefits. Gerard didn’t want to buy Frank roses or accompany him to prom -- okay, maybe prom wouldn’t be so bad, but only because they could fuck afterwards and like, subvert the heteronormative stereotype or whatever. It couldn’t possibly be worse than Gerard’s prom.

When Conor spoke, he was once again staring pointedly at Gerard’s crotch, not even bothering to make eye contact -- how socially inept could you get? --but Gerard wasn’t sure he could handle any more eye contact from this guy anyway. “So you aren’t exclusive.”

“I guess not, no.” It was pretty much impossible to be exclusive when most of Frank’s attraction to him seemed to stem from the fact that Gerard was in lust with his brother, and that was apparently hot. “Just... consistent?”

Then it struck him. It wormed its way into his brain and sank its tiny, metaphorical fangs into his flesh, holding on steadfastly to his train of thought.

“Hang on,” Gerard continued hesitantly, “are you... are you _soliciting_ me?” Eww, it felt weird to say out loud. Nobody fucking solicited Gerard, ever. As a rule. Yet here was Conor, staring heatedly at him with those huge, dark eyes, fucking playing with his own hair like a schoolkid in love.

“Is that a problem?” He asked.

At that exact moment, something tiny and excitable hit Gerard in the chest at full force, knocking him back against the wall. Unsurprisingly, that something was Frank, and for once in his life, he had absolutely perfect timing.

“Come on, let’s go,” said the Frank-shaped ball of energy adhered to his torso. “Ray’s flirting with the chick at the register.”

Conor cleared his throat. Frank turned to him, a look of interest spreading across his face. “Oh, hey dude,” he said.

“Hi again,” Conor nodded, hair flopping into his face. “I’m not actually a Walmart employee. My name’s Conor, and Gerard was just about to fuck me in the back seat of his car. Wanna come?”

Gerard gaped.

“I -- I was not!” He stuttered. “No, Frankie, no! Okay. This guy came on to me.” And he felt like he wasn’t really getting anywhere with this, because there was a slow smile growing on Frank’s face and Conor was inching closer, if that was even possible. “Oh my god, no! Frank, come on, I’m serious!”

“No, I believe you,” Frank smirked, like this was _normal_. “He came on to you. Sure.”

“Seriously!”

“Okay, cool.” A pause. “You’re gonna do it, though. Right?”

“Of course he is,” Conor answered for him. “Let’s go.” And without further ado, they each grabbed one of Gerard’s wrists and started for the parking lot, like they were plotting against him or something. Entrance hall, sliding doors, handicapped spaces.

“You have to be kidding me,” Gerard protested. “You can’t just -- you can’t just _do_ that! This is a fucking horrible idea!” He fought back a little bit, but didn’t want to make a scene or anything. Besides, Conor didn’t look about to let go until Gerard’s wrist turned into lava. This was a fucking horrible idea. “Okay, guys, fucking-- Ray can’t flirt with the cashier forever, you know. He’s _going_ to walk in on us!”

Frank shrugged. “Nah, he’s cool.” Like that was the end of the matter.

This was not cool. This was so not cool, but they were only a few spots away from the van, and Frank had the back door unlocked before Gerard could blink.

“I don’t think Ray gave you the keys so we could do _this_ ,” Gerard huffed. There was no reply other than Frank’s hand in his again, dragging him forcefully into the back.

There was a flurry of movement which involved Frank folding up the table, Conor moving the guitar into the passenger's seat, and Gerard squirming unhappily on the back bench.

"Are you guys fucking serious?" He asked yet again.

Frank moved to sit on the seat across from him, their feet touching on the floor. "Get over yourself. This dude wants to have sex with you. That is awesome. See, I already have some condoms in my pocket!"

" _Why the hell do you already have condoms in your pocket_?"

"'I used to be a Boy Scout. And also because Ray made me as soon as the lady bagged them," he grinned. There was no way they weren't plotting against Gerard. No way. That was too fucking convenient.

"That's too fucking convenient," Gerard said, but Frank just laughed.

"Stop being so paranoid. This is great, okay? Just roll with it!"

This was dumb. This was the fucking stupidest idea anyone had come up with ever, but Gerard was already half hard and Conor was shifting onto his lap, rubbing against him, so what was he supposed to do? He just rolled with it. There must have been some sort of perceptible change -- in his expression, his posture -- because Conor smirked, tilted his chin upward with two fingers.

“Mm, there we go,” he cooed in Gerard’s ear.

The whole situation was unbelievably surreal: the van was illuminated in the dull glow of a single streetlight directly above them, playing across Conor’s face. He looked like a Renaissance painting, each feature harsh and sharply defined, undeniably inviting. There was no sound save their collectively heavy breathing. Gerard wanted to kiss Conor senseless, so he did. No shame in being the first to act.

Conor made a tiny, surprised sound against his lips, but quickly got the idea, parting his mouth just enough for the tips of their tongues to brush together. It was soft at first, tentative, and it absolutely blew Gerard’s mind to think that this was the same guy who had calmly informed them that he wanted to be fucked in the ass less than five minutes ago. Their mouths moved together, slow and sensual, for several long moments before Conor tilted his head to the side and opened wider. And oh, that was certainly different. Conor kissed slowly but thoroughly, exploring every square centimeter of Gerard’s mouth and pausing so that Gerard could do the same. It made Gerard shiver, that wet slide against places he didn’t even know could feel good, like behind his teeth or the roof of his mouth. It was weird, but certainly not bad.

When they finally broke apart, Frank was staring at them wide-eyed and unashamed. “Wow,” he breathed, and Gerard was glad that _somebody_ could breath right now. “That was... you two are beautiful.”

Conor glanced behind him at that, leaning back and supporting his weight with a hand behind Gerard’s neck. “Beautiful,” he laughed. “I like that.”

Frank shifted over to the seat beside them, captured Conor’s lips with his own. Gerard smiled, because that was so Frank: he saw something he wanted and took it for himself. Gerard didn’t blame him for wanting Conor, though: he wanted Conor too. That was nothing new. Gerard wanted things all the time, wanted people. He wanted Frank, wanted Mikey, both with an intense passion rivaled only by his absolute certainty that he had to hold back. It felt unbelievably good to take what he wanted for once in his life and not feel guilty about it.

He spent a moment of self-indulgence reveling in that fact: he grabbed Conor’s thighs and squeezed, irrationally amazed by the human give under his hands. Gerard was the first one to speak when the kiss tapered off. “How are we going to do this?” He asked, because this needed to happen fucking now. Conor readjusted his weight to rest fully on Gerard’s lap again, rutting up against him in the process.

“Fuck him,” Frank said immediately. His eyes widened a bit, then, and he drew back; Gerard got the feeling he was surprising even himself. “Do it,” he said with more certainty. “I wanna see.”

“What about you, Frankie?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just do it.”

Gerard opened his mouth to protest, but Conor cut him off: “You heard him; he’s fine. Fuck me, Gerard.” And he couldn’t argue with that kind of conviction, no way, especially not with Conor’s eyes practically boring into his soul, ripping him apart from the inside and reinterpreting his personal definition of arousal.

“Yes. I mean, wow, okay, yeah,” he agreed. “Fuck.”

“Your boyfriend has a way with words,” Conor drawled in Frank’s general direction. Gerard rolled his eyes but didn’t protest.

“Just take your goddamn pants off,” he said.

Conor blinked heavily and did so, and during the brief ensuing commotion, went above and beyond by taking off all his clothes. Gerard didn’t bother, ignored his shirt and shoved everything down to his knees. Nobody needed to see his fucking glow-in-the-dark upper body. Conor, on the other hand, was a sight to behold: not muscled by any means, but lean and wiry with skin stretched taut around his ribcage. It was absolutely Gerard’s preferred body type.

That wasn’t even mentioning his cock. Alright, it was no secret that Gerard was a pretty big fan of male genitalia regardless of size or appearance, but Conor’s dick was nice. Proportional, flushed delicate pink around the head; Gerard would very much like to draw it if he still had his sketchpad. And if drawing fully-rendered dicks wasn’t so weird. Wow, it was like his portrait series, the one he’d lost: People Who Let Gerard Way Ride In Their Car. Gerard should start a new portrait series with the same concept, except they’d be dick portraits. He giggled. _Dick portraits._

He stopped giggling, though, because Frank was throwing condoms at his head.

“Okay, jeez, I’m going,” Gerard grumbled. Fucking Frank. He had been having a _moment_.

He stopped giggling, though, because Frank was throwing condoms at his head.

With little preamble, Conor tore the thing open with his teeth and then -- wow, that was pretty much the most amazing thing ever. His hands were unbelievably soft save his fingertips, which were calloused.

"Wow," Gerard panted. "Just. Wow. Do you play guitar?"

Conor made eye contact once again, face neutral but eyes smiling. That was almost more intense than the actual physical aspect of it: Conor's eyes, Gerard's eyes, souls completely bared in exchange for a brief moment of carnal pleasure.

"No. Sometimes. Do _you_ play guitar?"

That caught him a bit off-guard. "What?" He asked, but Conor just stroked slowly and stared. "No,” Gerard continued, “I mean your callouses. Feels nice."

"I'm glad my music is doing somebody good," Conor said, and then abruptly stilled his hand and rolled the condom on in a single, practiced motion. And there, in his eyes, that was _something_. There was something there, just under the surface of his psyche, and it was suddenly fascinating. Almost more than he wanted to touch, Gerard wanted to _know_. Because Conor was mentally bare, and for a moment, completely belonged to Gerard. It wasn't the same kind of ownership that was present in his relationship with Frank, his relationship with Mikey or lack thereof. No, this was different: warmer, somehow, slow and molasses-thick. Gerard couldn't explain it. He couldn't -- he didn't want to fuck Conor, not really: he wanted to share this with him, this completely foreign desire to connect emotionally.

His thought process ground to a halt, then, because shouldn't he feel that way about Frank as opposed to some random stranger?

"Shh, Gerard. Stay with me," Conor whispered. "I mean, I -- I know. I know it's easy to get lost in your head, but you -- you’ve gotta stay here. If it gets to be too much, you just have to touch me."

Gerard was confused for a moment, but that passed almost too quickly. His vaguely poetic ramblings made sense in a weird way: just live in the moment and don't think too hard about it. He had a feeling that Conor wasn't following his own advice.

He glanced to the side and made eye contact with Frank, who was panting in anticipation, working on that stupid fucking button fly. Christ, Frank's inner workings were so much less confusing.

"I don't--" he mumbled, eyes glazed over. "Um. I don't. Lube? Do we have that?" But Conor laughed, high and out of place.

" ‘S fine." He shifted higher on his knees, hovering over Gerard so that his dick bumped against Gerard's naval with every motion. "I can -- I can manage. Somebody, can you...?" Conor held out a hand and wiggled his spread fingers. Frank seemed to catch on first, grabbing his wrist eagerly and shoving the first two digits in his mouth. He went about it with almost comical dedication. Was that what Gerard looked like when he gave blowjobs, flushed and pouty and oh-so _serious_ about it? He suddenly realized that it was something he’d very much like to find out.

Conor withdrew his fingers with a wet pop.

"Okay," he mumbled, suddenly shy. It wasn't a huge surprise anymore, not after these constant shifts in personality. Gerard still wondered if he was mentally ill or something. Was he about to take advantage of yet another character flaw? What was wrong with him? But there was no turning back at that point, and even if there was, he wasn't nearly strong-willed enough for any turning.

"Christ," Conor moaned. Gerard couldn't bring himself to watch -- not because it wasn't hot; it was ridiculously hot, but because there was no way anything could be more erotic than the expressions flitting across Conor's face . Tiny twitches of movement in his generally stoic features, those deep, dark eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on Gerard's. There was a sort of tension there that he'd come to associate with sex and intense pain, two things that were linked in his mind. It was the strain just before coming and it was the withdrawal just before screaming, crying, forgetting appearances. He watched with rapt attention as Conor bit his lip and, inevitably, broke. His head snapped downward, like his neck had just gotten sick of holding it upright, and his eyes closed, mouth opened. "Oh god, holy -- holy fuck," he panted, and the slight tremor in his thin shoulders had Gerard panting right along with him.

"Are you okay?" Gerard asked, not because he honestly cared, but because it seemed like the polite thing to do. He wasn't sure he could stop himself even if Conor said no. Luckily, this wasn't an issue.

"Fine, I'm -- Jesus, just fucking do it."

Gerard wasn't going to argue with that. Without even a second's hesitation, he grabbed Conor's slim hips (bonier even than Frank. Was this what holding Mikey felt like? It pained him to realize that he'd forgotten) and lined them up gracelessly. Frank was watching them; he could feel the gaze even though his mind was clouded with anticipation, his eyes locked on the tense line of Conor’s body.

“One thing,” Conor choked, looking up again: “I -- I might start crying. Just don’ fucking stop.” Gerard had only a brief moment to wonder what was wrong with him, _why did that turn him on?_ before Conor was digging his blunt little nails into his shoulders and sinking down. Oh God, he was so fucking tense, muscles taut all throughout his upper body, thighs clenched around Gerard’s. Gerard wasn’t incredibly experienced, but he knew that tensing up was the exact opposite of what you were supposed to do; it _had_ to fucking hurt--

Conor rolled his head back, exposing his pale throat. Frank latched on almost immediately, sucking and biting at his jaw, his clavicle, and Gerard didn’t really care anymore. He could be selfish; he could just take this. Conor was giving it to him, and along with the strain came a beautiful, constricting warmth. The hands scrabbled at his neck and eventually locked together behind it, so Conor could brace himself. Fucking riding him. It was pretty much the most amazing thing Gerard had ever witnessed, for real this time: the sight of his abs constricting with each roll of his hips, his mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. He really did look like he might cry, and the trembling only intensified. Gerard wrapped an arm around his lower back to steady him, but Conor arched away, making his dick slide wetly against Gerard’s naval. Conor shuddered.

“Don’t -- please don’t touch me,” he groaned, rolling his head to the side and rutting them together again. “I can -- Jesus. Just don’t lemme go,”

He wasn’t making much sense, but that was okay: Gerard was content just listening to the sound of Conor’s voice, the way he slurred certain syllables together and exaggerated the space between others. It was so foreign, the guttural moans and voice cracks, and he found it utterly fascinating.

“Fuck!”

That wasn’t Conor, though. Gerard craned his neck to look to the side, and the first thing he noticed was, understandably, Frank’s hard-on. The second thing he noticed was the blood.

“Shit, what--” he started, attempting to squirm out from under Conor but only making him moan and grind harder.

“Chill, dude. My lip just split again. You know, from when you fucking bit me to prove a point?”

It didn’t do much to steady his heartbeat, but Frank was just rolling his eyes and wiping at his lip. If anything, his pulse skyrocketed, a symptom only exacerbated but his creeping sense of deja-vu. Conor started tensing again, tried to get his attention, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away: Frank was back to jerking off, reclined against the seat and watching them from under heavy lids, but the hand on his dick was not what interested Gerard. No, it was the tiny, self-satisfied smirk playing across his lips. More than that, it was the index finger of his left hand, picking at the wound and dragging the blood lazily across his chin. Disappearing into his mouth. Fuck.

Seriously, there was just a disproportionate amount of blood. How hard had Gerard bitten him? Swelling: there was definitely swelling, and _how the hell hadn’t he noticed that before?_ Was there going to be a scar? He was past the point of denying himself: Gerard really, really hoped it would scar, a permanent reminder that Frank belonged to him, still there long after Gerard was gone.

Conor chose that moment to start crying. Was it even possible for Gerard to have sex without his partners falling apart emotionally? Or, well, physically in Frank’s case.

“Oh God,” Gerard muttered, absently grabbing Conor’s hair and tilting his head to look at him. Locks of hair clung to his cheeks; wide-eyed, seemingly more discontent than legitimately upset. “Fuck. Am I hurting you? Do you want--”

But surprisingly, Frank was the one to cut him off. “He told you not to _stop_ , motherfucker!”

~

Jenny From Lane Seven hadn't rejected him exactly; rather, the conversation seemed to peter out of its own accord. That was okay: it was pretty fun just talking to a girl, being into her and knowing she's into you. Y'know? It was probably for the best anyway: even if he had been on the way to getting laid, the van appeared to be occupied.

He sighed quietly to himself. It seemed like the kind of moment that deserved a dramatic cloud of frozen breath, a little condensation, but the nigh was nearing seventy: warmer than usual, a little muggy, streetlights reflecting off the moisture in the air and casting the entire parking lot in an eerie yellowish glow. They hadn't even closed the fucking blinds. That was what they were there for: literally their entire purpose. Sex in the van. Bang blinds. Was it really such a difficult concept to grasp? And -- not that it was intentional, not that he wanted to, but Ray could catch glimpses of them through the misted window. Two nearly identical mops of black hair. Frank and Gerard? Probably.

He knew the condoms had been a good idea.

There was still the matter of all the shit they bought. Being as silent as possible, he pushed his cart into the rack and unloaded everything onto the van roof. It wouldn't get stolen that way, because no petty thief in their right mind would go near that thing when it was rocking like that.

Another exasperated sigh for nobody's benefit but his own, and Ray trudged back into Walmart. He'd go play videogame demos for half an hour, year-old games on grimy controllers, but he'd been missing the feeling of a d-pad under his thumb as of late. They couldn't be more than half an hour, could they?

He hoped he didn't run into that schizo greeter on his way in.

~

"Jesus, I'm sorry. Don't -- aah -- don't think it's weird; this happens," Conor ducked his head a little and coughed, legitimately; not just to break up what was left of their conversation. Poor little dude probably couldn't breath. "It's just--" and he inhaled deeply, ground down on Gerard's dick. Fuck. "It's just so -- so intense." Gerard ignored him. It was cool, he could cry if he wanted to.

Frank's attention was on Conor at this point. He looked feral, and Gerard could tell he wanted to grab his face and kiss him, rough and bloody, but was holding himself back. It would be weird, wrong, potentially dangerous, with the blood. So he went after Gerard instead, not intending to tease, though that may have been the end result.

"Do you wanna taste?" He asked, licking his lips absently.

Holy shit, _yes_.

Gerard couldn't make his mouth form words, though, so he expressed himself through action: pulled Frank toward him and smashed their lips together. Frank just took it, opened his mouth to the intrusion and didn't even attempt to fight back for once. It was strangely reminiscent of the few kisses he'd shared with Mikey. And wow, that mental image was the absolute last thing Gerard needed right now, when it was taking all his self restraint to hang on.

"Ah, Gee," Frank moaned, quiet and desperate, and how was he supposed to resist that? Gerard gave in and licked into Frank's mouth, lapping at his tongue until there was no trace of that warm, iron-sweet taste remaining. He pulled away, sucking on Frank's abused lower lip, when Conor cried out and fisted his hands in Gerard's hair.

"Oh -- oh God. C-can you feel it?" Conor's eyes were rolled back and mostly closed, like he was trying to see inside his own mind. Gerard didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling specifically -- honestly, it was hard to pick out any one sensation from the figurative deluge. He could be talking about fucking ghosts or something; Gerard didn't care, because Conor was coming, shaking almost violently and convulsing around him, his hands clenching rhythmically in his hair as Gerard fucked him through it.

"Holy shit," Frank mumbled. And Conor was apparently the most generous guy on the entire planet, because when it was over, he didn't stop, just kept lifting himself up and forcing himself back down again, only slightly more lethargically than before, riding the aftershocks. The tip of his cock dragged through the come on Gerard's chest with every motion.

"You don't have to..." Gerard began, but Conor shushed him with a finger to his lips.

"Shh," he slurred, " 'sokay. Feels good."

Gerard didn't object further, just grabbed Conor's hips with renewed passion and rolled up to meet every thrust. He wondered if he looked as wrecked as the other two: Conor, flushed from his chest to his cheeks, sated and almost smiling. Frank -- fuck, Frank was still beside them, holding back, slowing his strokes. Waiting for Gerard? He didn't have to wait long, because Gerard was fucking close; just watching Frank did it for him, was almost more appealing than Conor's determination to wear the both of them out. The blood was still there, drying in a wide streak from his chin to his chest and on the pads of his first two fingers. And in Gerard's mouth. Fuck, he could still taste it.

And then Frank met his eyes and smiled, tiny and secretive, and Gerard saw white.

~

Ray didn’t usually make a habit of insulting eleven-year-olds, but this kid was a fucking dick, okay?

“Woo, take that! You want a blue shell? I’ll give you a blue shell!”

He was squat, chubby, wearing ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with a generic picture of a dirtbike -- in fact, Ray was pretty sure they sold those at this very Walmart. And he had beaten Ray at Mario Kart _three_ times so far. Out of three.

~

“Jesus,” Conor mumbled, gingerly dismounting. Gerard nodded in agreement.

Conor, being the fucking gentleman that he was, took the liberty of cleaning them up, tossing the condom out the window -- damn, Gerard had become everything he hated about society -- and dropping to his knees in front of Frank, who moaned appreciatively. And Conor tore open another foil packet, rolled it on with his fucking mouth -- Gerard and Mikey had an in-depth conversation about that once, actually. Mikey was of the firm belief that it looked stupid unless you were a porn star or something, while Gerard gave anyone who tried points for effort.

Frank seemed to think it was a good idea. “Oh God, Conor, fuck,” he breathed, stuttering on each inhalation. Conor’s mouth wasn’t even wrapped around him anymore, lips just pressed gently against the head. Frank thrust up and Conor held him down.

“Gerard,” Conor said, like he’d had plenty of practice talking and giving head at the same time. “You should -- you should help.”

Gerard spent a moment of thorough confusion trying to figure out exactly how he was supposed to be helping, but then Conor gestured to the floor beside him and everything made sense. Sort of. He was still unclear on the logistics of the operation, but Conor seemed to know what he was doing, so Gerard porobliged: he sunk to his knees and then rested his head against Frank’s thigh, nuzzling indulgently. Whatever, Gerard could nuzzle. That wasn’t weird.

After a moment, he glanced at Conor, ignoring his tiny smirk, and asked, “How does this work exactly?”

“Um. You just -- I mean, you ought to be able to figure it out--” But to Gerard’s surprise, Frank cut in:

“I’m pretty sure you just, like, make out but let my cock get in the way.”

There was a silence during which nobody asked how he knew that, but then Conor shrugged, said, “Yeah, basically,” and went at it.

He started out licking up one side of the shaft, flicking his tiny, impossibly pink tongue against the head, making Frank shudder. It seemed as good a time as any to learn, so Gerard jumped in mouth-first. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite as fun as giving normal blowjobs -- there was less feeling of urgency, no restriction of breath -- but it was certainly novel, if nothing else. He experimented: touched his tongue to Conor’s and sucked gently at the shaft. He tried teeth, as soft as humanly possible, but Frank didn’t like that, a preference he made known by grabbing Gerard’s hair and giving it a sharp tug of warning. He glanced up just in time to see Frank’s eye-roll.

“Be nice,” Frank elaborated. “And fuck, somebody put it in your mouth already!”

Gerard nodded and ducked his head again. He tried to make eye contact with Conor, work things out, but his eyes were closed and he was obviously absorbed in the moment. That was okay, though: Gerard had already resigned himself to the notion that he wouldn’t actually get to put Frank’s entire dick in his mouth that night, so he settled for his balls instead, letting Conor do the actual sucking. He wasn’t bad at it, either, at least judging by the noises Frank was making; he worked up a quick rhythm, taking as much as he could without getting a face full of Gerard’s hair. Gerard, in turn, laved his tongue around the base, took Frank’s balls into his mouth and sucked gently. It wasn’t something that had ever occurred to him before, but now that he was doing it, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He was actually a little envious of Frank, truth be told.

It was over much too quickly for Gerard’s tastes, with Frank writhing and gasping obscenities, but the kid had been patient. He really couldn’t blame him. Gerard hung on anyway, licking and sucking until Frank had to forcefully pull him off. Gerard whined but sat up and tugged his pants all the way on, watching Conor attempt to do the same.

The van door banged open.

“Oh God, are you guys _still_ fucking?” Asked the very large, very exasperated afro silhouetted in the glow of the streetlamp. Conor tripped over his pants.

“Um,” Gerard answered. “No?”

Ray rolled his eyes and crawled in, leaving the door open and plopping down on the seat like walking in on gay threesomes was nothing new. He crossed his arms and waited for Conor, somehow managing not to stare at Frank’s dick without pointedly looking away. His friendly nonchalance was pretty damn impressive if you asked Gerard.

Conor finally got his clothes on and hopped out the back door, landing on the asphalt with a jolt that must have hurt. He ignored it, though, and leaned up to say his goodbyes, courteous to the end.

“I’m sorry for having sex in your van,” he told Ray, completely straight-faced. He didn’t seem to understand why everybody else was smiling, either, just biting his lip absently and furrowing his brow.

Ray smiled. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, clapping Conor once on the shoulder. “If anything, I should thank you; these guys are going to be in a good mood for the rest of the trip.” Conor didn’t respond, but grinned and shook Ray’s hand firmly, nevermind where that thing had been.

He took a few paces, turned back, and raised his voice. “And Gerard?”

“Yeah?” Gerard called back, invisible behind the single closed door.

“Don’t tie yourself down! Chicago may just be a premonition of the place you need to be.”


	9. Chapter 9

They ended up moving the van a few spaces over when they realized the streetlights were an all-night kind of deal and the blinds didn't sufficiently block any light at all. Frank seemed to think that was pretty novel, driving around without having to sit in his seat: he collapsed to the floor, dragging Gerard down with him and rolling around with the motion of the van. They lurched to a halt and he rolled on top of Gerard, almost certainly intentionally.

"Come on, get up." Ray hopped easily into the back and kicked Frank in the side. Frank whined. "You've had your fun. No humping while I'm in the car."

With a happy sigh, he shifted away and up onto the seat, attempting to rest his feet on Gerard's face and getting completely rejected. "Can't I just sleep on Gee tonight? He's comfier than the seats."

Gerard balked. "Are you calling me fat?"

"I'm calling you comfortable," Frank grinned, and then stage-whispered to Ray: "He has _body issues_."

Fuck him, how would he know that? Gerard never told him that! "I don't have body issues!"

Ray giggled. "He has issues talking about his body issues."

"Oh my God, can we just go to sleep already?" Gerard laughed. "I'm tired."

"It's an orgasm thing," Frank added. Gerard glared.

"Well, yeah. I wasn't going to _say_ it, but yeah.”

Ray busied himself pulling an enormous wool blanket from under the driver's seat. Probably intended to be used if the car broke down in a snow drift or something, though Gerard got the impression that Ray could fashion new tires out of bark and shoelaces in the event of a breakdown. "You guys should consider yourself lucky," he said, trying to unfold the thing in the small available space. "I'm cool with you boning and stuff. I could be, like, a bible nut. Try to baptize you or something."

"I am baptized!" Frank said indignantly. "Baptized people can still like dick!"

Gerard snorted. "Can we please not talk about this?"

"Why?" Ray asked. "Sore subject?"

"Not exactly. I mean, we were raised Catholic, but I don't really know if I'm... into that anymore."

"One sec. Lay down where you wanna sleep, and then you can tell us how the Church fucked you over," Ray said.

There was a good deal of shuffling around, -- rolling, on Frank's part -- but they settled in eventually, squished together in the space between the seats. Ray raised an eyebrow, but spread the blanket over them nonetheless and crawled under it, reclining on the bench above them.

There was a moment of silence, and then Frank spoke: "Uugh, this thing is itchy as fuck!"

Gerard laughed. "Wait, hang on. I've got an idea. Sit up a bit?" Frank sat up, and Gerard lifted the blanket off him and tucked it into the cushion of the unoccupied seat, keeping it up in a sort of make-shift tent with Ray on one side and the two of them underneath. The sides draped down, completely enclosing them. Frank hummed happily.

It was even darker underneath, already significantly warmer from their combined body heat. There was more silence, but this time it could be attributed to the way the wool absorbed all sound, muffling even their breathing.

"This feels like the downstairs suite," Frank commented quietly.

"Mmhm."

Come to think of it, the quiet, tranquil feeling was familiar. Not from Frank's house; long before that. Before running away and even before his obsession with his brother, Gerard had built blanket forts with Mikey, back when they shared a bunk bed. It was something that nearly every kid who grew up with a bunk bed tried: tucking sheets or comforters under the top mattress and hiding out in the bottom, pretending it was a cave or a bomb shelter or a submarine. Mikey and Gerard never once pretended, though, not even with their over-active imaginations. There were no enemy fighter jets, no vampires outside waiting for a chance to snatch them up. Just the two of them curled up in a make-shift nest of pillows and extra blankets swiped from the linen closet, always folded neatly and back by sunrise.

No, there was no pretending, because the blanket forts were sacred, ritualized. They started when Mikey was four: that was when Gerard decided that they were going to be best friends, because those were the kind of big decisions you could make in a heartbeat when you were a little kid. They had been playing in the snow together, Mikey in his ski pants and down jacket, Gerard in his coat with the fur lining -- he had been devastated when he found out that they had to kill bunnies to make it and balked every time his mom made him put it on. They had been on either side of the garage, sneaking around corners to chuck snowballs at each other, when Mikey charged straight into Gerard's base (consisting of a mound of snow and an overturned sled) with his hands in the air. Gerard pelted him in the face, naturally, but laid down his arms when Mikey spat out the snow and started yelling about surrender.

"I wanna be on your team," he'd said. Gerard informed him that they had to fight each other, because it was just the two of them; there was nobody else to fight. Mikey told him that they could team up and attack the army of snow ghosts cresting the hill.

Gerard had no idea what snow ghosts were or how they could crest a hill on their ethereal little feet, but he followed Mikey's lead, and together they _destroyed_ those frozen motherfuckers, ducking behind drifts and chucking snow at nothing in particular.

Until that point, having a brother seemed like just another fact of life, something vaguely annoying at times, but necessary, like brushing your teeth or wearing pants. Gerard didn’t dislike Mikey, but he wasn’t usually interested in his day-to-day activities. That changed for no real reason; there was nothing special about that early February day other than the fact that, completely arbitrarily, Gerard realized that his brother was more than a quiet, funny-smelling piece of furniture. When they came inside, he volunteered to help Mikey get his snow suit off, wet shoes squeaking in the foyer, trailing puddles into the living room. That night, he showed Mikey how to build a blanket fort.

They spent nearly every night during the following months huddled together on the bottom bunk long past their bedtimes. Gerard read Mikey comic books in the glow of the hall-closet emergency flashlight; he added his own commentary, too, pointing out easter eggs hidden in panels and explaining exactly how laser vision worked in the Marvel universe. And when Mikey got tired, he curled up against his brother’s chest and drifted off while Gerard talked to himself, read, scribbled in his Crayola sketchpad.

Though the blanket forts became an infrequent occurrence, Gerard’s and Mikey’s relationship remained mostly unchanged throughout the majority of their childhood: Mikey looked up to his brother, but Gerard never looked down on Mikey. They shared: games, interests, juice boxes, Gerard’s cloves and Mikey’s lighters, Gerard’s pills and Mikey’s booze. Clothes, beds. They were two peas in a pod, halves of a whole; Gerard was the milk and Mikey was the giant cookie that they burnt and ate anyway, breaking it up and remembering how great the batter tasted. Mikey was always worried that they’d get salmonella from the raw eggs. Gerard told him that barfing their guts out wouldn’t be so bad as long they could be sick together.

And this was no different: they were highways apart, but Gerard and Mikey were sick together.

~

Gerard didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he drifted back on again, suffocating under the scratchy wool. The blanket must have fallen at some point. He felt around for Frank but found nothing. It seemed darker than when he went to sleep. There was something humming under him, smooth but occasionally interrupted by a metallic clang, like a really shitty white noise machine. Gerard groaned, lifted the offending blanket off his head, and was immediately assaulted by what was assumedly an army of Heaven’s angels.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Frank chirruped from somewhere behind the blinding wall of light. Everything was obscenely bright and Gerard was going to die.

“I’m going to _die_!” He groaned, feeling around for some kind of landmark and only succeeding in twisting the blanket around his leg and falling over. Frank started laughing. “Fuck off,” Gerard mumbled.

“Haha oh man, sorry dude. Just -- your _hair_! You look like you just crawled out of your -- fucking -- nuclear holocaust bunker or something. And there are no hairbrushes in the nuclear holocaust. Ray! Dude, check it out! It looks like he blow dried it upsidedown!” Gerard felt hands on his scalp, so he flailed around and shook his head in retaliation.

When his eyes finally adjusted and his head stopped pounding -- shit, maybe this _was_ the nuclear holocaust -- he was met with the last thing you want to see in the morning, save maybe a fat, balding guy in bed next to him: Frank, smiling like he’d just won the mega-lottery. And the mega-lottery paid out all its prizes in massive quantities of Red Bull and crack.

Frank kissed him then, on the tip of the nose, and Gerard flailed around some more in attempt to punch him in the face or at least slap him, but Frank was already up on the bench, cackling madly.

“Glad you’re up,” Ray called from the front. “Now can you please get that little asshole to put his seatbelt back on?”

“Hrm. We’re moving?” Gerard asked, plopping down on the seat across from Frank and kicking him in the shin for good measure. Frank didn’t seem to mind.

“Hell yeah, motherfucker!” He exclaimed a little over-enthusiastically for this early in the morning. “Look out the window!”

Gerard didn’t want to look out the window, but he did anyway. It was hard not to. What he saw was mildly impressive: rows of squat, greyish buildings, warehouses and ground-level storage. It wasn’t exactly civilization, but it was an indication that they would reach civilization in the near future.

“Damn,” he breathed appreciatively. “How long have I been out?”

“Going on twelve hours. Three since we started driving. Frank’s been pretty much freaking out for the last two because I wouldn’t let him wake you up.”

“I tried anyway,” Frank added solemnly. “I blew you in your sleep.”

Ray rolled his eyes. Gerard couldn’t see it, but it happened. “He did not fucking blow you in your sleep. I watched him the whole time specifically so that wouldn’t happen. He just sat there and played guitar and kicked you in the face once.”

Frank glanced guiltily at his feet. “Not intentionally.”

“Anyway,” Ray continued, ignoring him, “We’re only about twenty minutes away. Here, get up front so you can help me find his address.”

~

It was two in the afternoon, a Saturday, and Mikey realized that this was the first time he’d remembered the time and date simultaneously since Gerard left.

“Hey Mikey, Patrick’s up! And he wants his over-easy,” Pete called from the bedroom.

Yes, Mikey was making eggs for Pete and his roommate. In Pete’s kitchenette. Maybe he should have felt a little used, a little exploited -- and okay, he _did_ , but he kind of liked it, and he guessed that was kind of the point of the whole arrangement. Did they have an arrangement? Mikey didn’t know. And if they did, he had no idea what to call it. They weren’t _boyfriends_. That was the stupidest thing ever; Mikey could never have a boyfriend. Some kind of weird S &M thing, maybe -- he could live with that. It din’t matter anyway: there was no reason to think they were a thing at all after one night, even if it had been a really awesome night and Mikey was still at Pete’s house, making him eggs. And making eggs for his roommate. That was a bit weird.

Speaking of Pete’s roommate, his eggs were starting to stick. And burn. Uugh, he was the most distracted cook ever, but Mikey didn’t mind eating burnt stuff. Patrick could have his.

“Here,” he mumbled, setting the plate he’d intended for himself on the table. “When you’re ready. Want juice?”

Mikey turned around to find Patrick sprawled across the couch in what looked like a polo and short shorts, and wow, had he been their the entire time? He looked exactly like the kind of person who you could find sprawled across a couch in a polo and short shorts any given day of the week, too: long-ish brown hair, a little pudgy. He looked like maybe he was trying to grow a beard but his body was physically incapable of such a feat.

“You don’t have to make me breakfast,” he sighed from the couch. Patrick lifted his head just a little to squint at Mikey over the tops of his glasses.

“Huh? No, I don't really mind,” Mikey answered. Because he didn't. Breakfast wasn't an issue. If anything, it was a little assurance that this was slightly more than a one-night stand. Unless--

“Yeah, but Pete gets everybody he fucks to make him breakfast. And me, except he doesn’t fuck me first.” Patrick sighed wistfully. “He's kind of a dick, actually, but I don't think he'd be eating at all if he didn't have some hot young thing in his kitchen.”

Mikey was mildly appalled, which was honestly quite a lot of emotion for him. He didn't _show_ it, of course, just stared blankly at the eggs in the pan, silently daring them to burn. Mikey was _not_ a 'hot young thing.' He told Patrick as much, monotone as ever. Monotone was hard, too, especially when his voice was basically wrecked and cracking all over the place.

“Sorry, dude,” Patrick said, throwing up his hands in defense, “but don't shoot the messenger. I'm just trying to let you know what you're getting yourself into.”

He scowled at the eggs. Fucking eggs, those things were douchebags.

“I mean, the guys who aren't looking for anything serious are usually gone before he can stick them in the frilly apron--” For the record, the apron Mikey was wearing was not _frilly_. It wasn't even pink. More like very light maroon. “--So I figured I'd let you know. He doesn't have much, uh, respect for exclusivity. Run while you can, kid.”

Mikey really wished that this guy would just shut up already. He was -- he had to be a goddamn mind reader or something, to be able to pinpoint Mikey's concerns so exactly. And then punch them in their concerned little faces. Why could all of Mikey's acquaintances read minds? It was fucking annoying.

He chose not to respond, instead scraping Pete's breakfast onto a chipped blueish plate and attempting to evenly distribute two forks between three people.

“Just eat,” Patrick advised. “He's up, but he probably won't actually be _up_ for another twenty minutes, and another twenty minutes of eyeliner after that. And if he is, well, fuck him. He can eat with his face or something.” Mikey almost smiled at that, because the image of Pete with his face smushed in a plate of fried eggs was pretty hilarious, but he caught himself in time. Showing emotion would only make the mind reading easier. He took the suggestion, though, and poured himself half a glass of orange juice from the fridge – half, because that was everything left in the carton – and supplemented the rest with water. It stung his raw throat on the way down, but it was the good kind of sting, the aloe-on-sunburn kind of sting, evidence that it was clean and healing. He sat down and took a bite.

“Eww, are these even good anymore?”

“Probably not,” Patrick yawned, finally levering himself off the couch. He stretched like an overfed cat, cracked his knuckles behind his head, and plopped down across from Mikey. “Pete'll eat yours if you don't want them. I think we have Fruitloops in the cupboard, but I doubt the milk is any good either.” Mikey raised an eyebrow, and he elaborated. “We alternate, see? And it's Pete's turn to go shopping, but he always forgets and our perishables have all, uh, perished before he gets around to it. We usually live on Poptarts and granola bars and shit around here. And coffee.”

Mikey perked up at that. “There's coffee?”

“Well, uh, no.”

He slumped in his seat.

“Sorry,” Patrick continued sympathetically. “I'm not actually sure if coffee grounds can go bad, but every cup tasted like piss so we threw them out.”

Mikey scowled. Wow, he might not be too heartbroken if this turned out to be a one-night stand, because suddenly, entrusting his sexual wellbeing to someone as flippantly irresponsible as Pete didn't seem like a great idea.

“Hey, speak of the devil! Look who decided to crawl out of his cave this morning,” Patrick exclaimed, turning his attention to the bedroom door. “And looking fabulous, I must say.”

Pete's answering glare could cut diamond.

He was leaning against the doorframe, a full half-hour ahead of schedule, and Mikey had to admit that he did look pretty damn fabulous: a fucking magenta hoodie, and holy shit, his _eyeliner_. His _smile_. But mostly his eyeliner. Screw all that shit Mikey had said earlier about flippant irresponsibility: Pete could be as irresponsible as he wanted. Pete could handcuff him to train tracks and lose the key, as long as they got to make out one more time.

Mikey stood up and took an involuntary step forward – he was always so goddamn obvious in his intentions, despite his best efforts to hide them – and Pete picked up on it immediately, wiped the scowl off his face.

“Morning, Mikeyway,” he smirked, and before Mikey could even roll his eyes at the nickname – weren't nicknames supposed to be shorter than your actual name? – Pete was upon him. Literally, grabbing him by the hips and shoving him against the edge of the counter. He vaguely registered Patrick's exasperated sigh before Pete kissed him, hard and possessive and oh-so decisive. Mikey just melted, couldn't help it – not into Pete's mouth or the hand that had snuck into his hair to hold his head still, but into the concept itself, the meaning behind the thing. Pete was similar to Mikey in the clarity of his action, dissimilar in his inexplicable tolerance of this fact. Regardless, his message was clear: _this is absolutely, positively_ not _over_.

Patrick cleared his throat just as Pete pulled away of his own accord. “Can you please wait until I leave?” He asked, but Pete just grinned and punched him lightly in the shoulder. Mikey sat down again, because his legs were definitely going to give out if he didn't.

“So,” Pete said, easily changing the subject. “Is there food?”

Mikey made a face and slid his plate across the table. Not his orange juice, though; he had _fought_ for that watered-down dross. “I think your eggs were bad.”

Pete just shrugged and snatched the fork out of his hand, shoveled a few bites into his mouth before anyone could warn him further. He chewed happily for a second before slowing down. It was pretty hilarious, like the kind of shit you see on Saturday morning cartoons: he did this thing where he kind of scrunched up his whole body into a ball, wrinkling his nose and slouching down. Mikey had the presence of mind to pass him a paper towel. He tried not to watch as Pete spit that crap into it, and, failing that, tried not to laugh too hard. He stopped laughing abruptly when that motherfucker stole his orange juice and downed it in one swig.

“Whelp, it's official,” Patrick said sagely, clapping his hands once like Mikey's and Gerard's mom when she wanted them to clean something without arguing “this is inedible. Today shall forever be remembered as the day Pete Wentz refused to put something in his mouth.”

“Ugh, shut up,” Pete mumbled. “I'll put your _face_ in my mouth.”

Patrick turned to Mikey and whispered conspiratorially: “He will, too. Watch out.”

Pete just rolled his eyes and started banging around the kitchen in search of something-or-other. They watched amusedly as he grew more and more frustrated. “Where's the goddamn coffee?” He asked at last.

“Don't be so bitchy. We threw it out like two weeks ago,” Patrick said.

“Then why haven't we gotten more?”

“Because you haven't been shopping in two weeks.”

“Oh my _God_ , I was gonna go last night!”

Patrick glared.

“...But Manic Oppressive was playing.”

“But you were making this dude suck you off,” Patrick corrected, nodding to Mikey. “Yeah, don't look so stunned. I told you I'd be coming home.”

Pete apparently couldn't refute that point, but that didn't mean he wasn't up for arguing. “I didn't _make_ him suck me off.”

“ _Keep it open, Mikey, or I’ll keep it open for you!_ ” Patrick imitated in a high falsetto, with little talky-hands and everything.

Mikey had a feeling that things were a little out of hand at this point. “Hey, guys, I’m right here. Don’t... do whatever it is you’re doing right now.”

“Yeah, Mikey. Did I _make_ you suck me off?” Pete asked saucily, completely ignoring his protest.

“Um.” He wasn’t really sure how to answer that. “You kind of did. But in a good way. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

There were averted gazes and shuffled feet all around, blank staring on Mikey’s part. Had he said something wrong? He was just trying to stay neutral, not pick sides right off the bat, and why were they talking about this in the first place? But then he caught Patrick smiling at his feet, and watched that smile grow into something full-fledged and genuinely amused. Finally, he looked up with a huge grin spread across his face.

“Oh, wow,” he said, shaking his head. “Wow. Pete, dude, he’s the fucking _one_. Look me in the eye and tell me he’s not the one.”

“Shut up!” But Pete was smiling too, punching Patrick lightly in the shoulder. “Let’s not talk about my sex life right now, okay?”

“Does that mean we can talk about your sex life later?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. But right now, I am going to fucking die if I don’t get something in my stomach. Something that hasn’t been decaying for two weeks,” and he grabbed Mikey by the back of the neck and began steering him toward the door. It was so easy, like they had known each other forever and this was just part of their alleged friendship. It was confusing, though, because Mikey wasn’t sure what Pete was trying to do exactly. Kick him out? That really didn’t seem like a logical progression from the end of the conversation. This was quickly resolved, however, when Pete slipped on a hoodie from the back of a kitchen chair and elaborated:

“I’m buying you coffee.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a masked command. And it made Mikey’s stomach flip. Wow, was that affection? Because it was the same sort of precipice-edge, stalled-elevator feeling that he used to feel, back when things were still sort of normal. While Gerard talked to him through the shower curtain, trivial conversation that became thrilling, or when he walked in on Gerard fixing his makeup or playing with his hair; when he woke up at two to find cold lunch-in-bed with a doodle on the napkin, ‘XOXO G’. Pete was buying him coffee. He felt like maybe he was betraying his brother, just a little bit.

“Are you buying _me_ coffee?” Patrick asked hopefully, completely oblivious to Mikey’s suddenly solemn train of thought.

“I’m buying everyone coffee with your money,” Pete answered easily. “Now put your fucking shoes on. Not the sandals, asshole, you’re wearing socks! Did you sleep in that?”

“Well sor-ry, like you’ve never worn boxers to the grocery store -- oh, I forgot. You’ve never _been_ to the grocery store.”

Pete didn’t argue further, and in exchange, Patrick retreated to the bedroom in search of pants. They had a funny sort of antagonistic thing going on, Mikey thought, like TV siblings or something. He and Gerard had never gone through that, not really; there was Mortal Kombat trash-talk, of course, but he couldn’t actually remember the kind of huge fights that Mikey’s friends told them they were supposed to have. Maybe Mikey’s friends were a little biased, though, because to the underclassmen, Gerard had always been that creepy dude in the basement who would probably try to suck your blood if left in a room with you for too long. Which was kind of funny in a twisted way, because Mikey now realized they hadn’t been entirely wrong.

And then Patrick returned with a pair or relatively clean black jeans, and they were being ushered into the stairwell. He hadn’t even noticed that there was a stairwell the previous night, probably because Pete’s hand on the back of his neck had demanded much more attention than the scenery through which it was guiding him. Was that a thing? With his neck? He’d never known anybody to do that before, not even Gerard. And Gerard always had a bit of a penchant for dragging him around.

“Mikey, dude, you look like you’re on Mars right now. Don’t sue me if you fall down the stairs.”

He looked up to see Pete smirking at him from a few steps up. Mikey would have blushed if blushing was something of which he was capable -- it was more Gerard’s area of expertise -- but he didn’t answer, just looked on blankly and tried really hard not to actually fall. He only stumbled once on the way down, which he counted as a win. It was only because Pete kept staring at him.

The apartment was pretty much right above the awesome part of town; not the _nice_ part of town, but the awesome part, with the graffitied park benches and the one venue with actual moshing. And the good coffee shop, the one where Mikey wished he worked, as opposed to the one that had actually employed him for a two-month stint last summer. The one with incense and guys in flannel shirts and the dude always playing really shitty acoustic guitar in the corner.

Guitar Guy was the only other customer on that particular day, ‘customer’ being a relative term as he didn’t seem to actually be drinking any coffee.

He looked up when they came in, cutting short some impassioned lyrics about aeroplanes or something to nod in their direction. “Pete,” he said.

“Hey Jeff,” Pete acknowledged, already rifling through his pockets, assumedly in search of cash. He emerged triumphant after a moment, two fives in hand. “Oh hey, don’t have to borrow yours after all!” He smiled.

“Good,” muttered Patrick. “ ‘Cause my wallet’s in my other pants.”

Pete snorted and approached the menu. “The usual?” He asked Patrick, who nodded. “And Mikey, you’re getting a soy latte.”

That was... a little strange. Mikey was about to protest that he didn’t _want_ a soy latte, that he would rather have his caffeine in pure form and that soy milk tasted weird anyway, but then a thought dawned on him: was this a thing too? Like the hand on his neck or Pete’s ridiculous team-building, was this intended to test the waters? Because if all he had to do to win Pete’s heart was drink soy lattes, the whole thing seemed like a pretty good deal.

He nodded jerkily, and then said “yeah,” because Pete’s attention was still focused on him rather than the bored-looking barista. That seemed to satisfy him, at least.

“Two iced americanos and a soy latte, please,” he said, leaning on the portion of counter just above elbow-height. “All large. Mikey, go find us a seat.”

Mikey was momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly. He was only just beginning to get used to the tiny shock he felt every time Pete told him to do something -- it was the way he said things, like it was perfectly normal to order Mikey around. The crazy thing was that the more offhand it was, the more Mikey began to believe that it was normal. And that, in turn, seemed to prevent other people from noticing. Not that Patrick made for a very good control group.

He did sit down, in the corner furthest away from Jeff the Air Travel Enthusiast, and thought about Pete and Lattes and sucking dick. And yeah, he could see the dynamic developing, maybe a little. A lot.

See, Mikey had entered into the situation thinking he knew exactly what he wanted: to be held down, maybe tied up, and fucked until he could could barely stand. And then to _leave_ ; that was the important part. Apparently he was wrong, though, because Pete seemed to know what he needed better than Mikey himself, and had, last night, given him exactly that: what could be classified as oral sex but was more akin to throat-fucking -- he shuddered at the mere memory: the strange combination of desperation and complete calm, the slight burn that remained every time he swallowed, a constant reminder. And after that, Pete had adhered to the original plan only partially. He did hold Mikey down, wrists above his head, but didn’t fuck him, flat-out refused to touch him. Instead, he had pressed a thigh between Mikey’s legs and told him that if he wanted to come, he had to rub off on it. And fuck, if it wasn’t humiliating, but that was part of the point: the sheer depravity of the thing just made it that much hotter. And Mikey had done it, -- of-fucking-course he had -- desperate and messy and shaking head to toe. He remembered clearly the way his heart seemed to stop when he came, chest clenching from lack of oxygen and every nerve in his body screaming in protest, and when it was over, Pete had cleaned him up and tucked him in and been the big spoon for Mikey’s sake.

Maybe that was what the coffee thing was about: Pete taking care of him because Mikey was having trouble taking care of himself. It was smaller scale, sure, but it was about the concept rather than the execution. Maybe Pete saw his inner need for guidance the same way he seemed able to read Mikey’s other various expressions, gestures, and general states of being, and he’d acted upon the observation for reasons that were currently unclear. Maybe he needed more control in his life; Mikey could understand that even if he couldn’t relate: people’s tendency to feel confined in any circumstance. Maybe they were destined for each other. Or maybe Mikey was over analysing things again. Maybe Pete just got off on telling him what to do.

“Is he really that bad?” Pete asked, sliding into the seat next to him, crowding him between the booth and the wall.

Mikey furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“Jeff. I don’t think you could be further away if we sat in the bathroom.”

“Ah, sorry,” Mikey smiled nervously, “I just. He’s kind of creeping me out.”

Pete laughed then, loud and sincere, showing rows of straight, toilet-bowl white teeth. That guy must have had headgear his entire school career. “Truth?” Pete asked, leaning in. “He creeps me out too. Here every time I come in, swear to God.”

“What are we talking about?”

Patrick plopped gracelessly into the seat across from them, nearly spilling his iced whatever.

“Jeff.”

“Oh yeah,” Patrick smiled in recognition. “He’s one creepy motherfucker.”

Mikey couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it, because the guy was _right there_ , just doing his thing, completely oblivious to the world around him. Shit, he was kind of envious of that: he hadn’t been able to really get absorbed in anything he did as of late. Not since Gerard left. Things he enjoyed -- wanted to do, like playing bass or playing Resident Evil or even getting laid -- didn’t seem to hold his focus. It wasn’t a chemical thing, wasn’t depression. Gerard had explained the symptoms of various personality disorders to him on many occasions, usually because he thought he was afflicted by everything he read about, and Mikey knew that wasn’t it.

It was definitely something, though, because he was fucking envious of this guitar dude and his inhuman concentration.

Gerard used to get like that too: so completely absorbed in something that he’d forget to eat or sleep or walk Mikey to the bus stop. And that was a problem, at least in Mikey’s mind, for the same reason fucking Pete was a problem: Mikey didn’t just want to have sex; he wanted to be _owned_ , but it seemed like everyone he wanted to give himself to was barely responsible enough to take care of themselves, let alone Mikey.

“Dude,” Pete was saying. He snapped his fingers and inch from Mikey’s nose.

“Huh?” Mikey grunted.

“You’re spacing again. What’re you thinking about?”

“My brother,” he blurted out before he had the chance to recognize it as a Bad Idea. Um. Mikey fidgeted, hoping that the line of questioning would end there.

No such luck. “Cool, you’ve got a brother?” Pete asked easily, leaning into the booth and throwing and arm around Mikey’s shoulders, a subtle warning. “When do I get to meet him?”

Mikey rolled his eyes. “You don’t, asshole. When are you introducing me to your parents?”

Patrick mock-swooned across the table.

“No, come on,” he continued, undeterred. “He sounds cool! Older or younger?”

“How can he _sound cool_ when I haven’t even told you anything about him? Other than the fact that he exists.”

“Any friend of Mikeyway is a friend of mine,” Pete grinned.

There was an expectant silence, and Mikey gave in. It was hard not to, with the two of them all smiling and anticipatory and way too excited. “Older,” he admitted, trying his best to convey through a series of eye-rolls and drawn-out sighs that talking about his brother was like, a _huge_ sacrifice. “Twenty-two. His name’s Gerard. He’s in art school.”

“Really?” Patrick asked, suddenly interested. “Where? I have a few friends who might know him.”

“No. I -- I don’t know why I just said that. That wasn’t even kind of true,” Mikey admitted, staring into his latte. He could feel Pete looking at him but didn’t meet his gaze. Why _had_ he just said that? “He wanted to go to art school, but.”

Pete slid his arm down to wrap conspicuously around Mikey’s waist, pulling them close at the hip. “But what?” He asked, tone soothing.

Mikey couldn’t answer. He didn’t fucking know. Gerard had -- he had talked about going to art school like it was a big deal, his serious long-term plan, but it had just sort of fizzled out. He’d applied to a few places at first; Mikey knew because they’d sat at the kitchen table together and filled out paperwork while their mom gushed about Gerard and his career and wasn’t this just a great opportunity? But when the letters started rolling in -- rejections and acceptances and even scholarship inquiries -- he had basically ignored them. Mikey understood that it wasn’t a rebellion thing and it had nothing to do with laziness, even if their mom didn’t: that was about the time Gerard’s depression had worsened. He had -- well. He started drinking. It wasn’t a big problem, not really, because they both did it recreationally. Hell, Mikey’s ubiquitous handle of vodka was still in the box of shit at the back of his closet. Gerard’s problem never got as bad as the PSAs said it would; there was no violence involved, just a whole lot of Mikey leaving Gerard in the basement in the morning and coming home to find him passed out in the exact same spot in the afternoon. That was bad, yeah, but Mikey could cope because Gerard could cope.

Then he started bringing home pills.

They had actually helped at first: mild stuff, small dosages; the kind of shit your mom would let you double up on if you were having a bad day. Gerard hadn’t stopped passing out in places where he shouldn’t, but there was significantly less vomit involved in this particular vice. It got worse -- not unbearable, but worse -- when he started with harder stuff. Mikey didn’t know where he got it: obviously nowhere consistent, because they came in a different bottle with a different name every week, ending in -ax or -sol and disturbingly tiny for something so potent. Even then, things were relatively normal. Gerard seemed a little more out of it, a little more introverted. He stopped letting Mikey sit on the bathroom counter while he showered. The worst had been the nights when he’d wake up trembling and confused, unsure of where he was. Fucking hallucinating on occasion, and Mikey could tell by the way his eyes glazed over and focused on things that weren’t there. He wouldn’t cry -- Mikey wasn’t sure he _could_ cry during that particular phase of the cycle -- but he would ask confusing, slurred questions and shake. Always with the shaking. And Mikey asked if Gerard wanted to sleep in his bed, and even when the asking progressed into straight-out begging -- because it was fucking torture watching his brother go through this and not being able to help, not being able to touch -- the answer was always no.

Everything made sense in retrospect: the avoidance, the distance, the constant alone time. They used to jerk off in the room together, for God’s sake. It wasn’t something they talked about or even really thought about, rather, a habit born of convenience. Gerard crawled in bed and Mikey crawled in bed on the opposite side of the room, and they weren’t just going to _leave_ , because if one of them spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom and emerged without massive amounts of eyeliner, the other knew what was going on. Might as well put it out in the open. Mikey had never seen it as sexual, or at least not in relation to his brother. Just two guys taking care of business in a completely heterosexual way. It was obvious now that Gerard’s coldness stemmed from a new take on the matter. If he was, what, attracted to Mikey, then of course he would withdraw, because that wasn’t something you wanted your brother to know ever. A normal sibling would freak the fuck out. Of course, nothing about Mikey’s and Gerard’s relationship started out normally, so this was really an obvious outcome. Mikey would have liked to say that he reciprocated his brother’s affection because he’d had a crush too, because they were destined for each other, but that wasn’t true. He’d never really looked at Gerard in a sexual way before the kiss. The bottom line was that it was wrong; it was fucking weird, but Mikey couldn’t bring himself to see it as the bad sort of weird. And if society looked down on them, so what? If Mikey had learned anything from punk rock, it was that being looked down upon by society probably meant he was doing something right. He just wished that Gerard would see it that way. That he would come back.

“Mikey, Jesus. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, catching Pete’s irritated pout out of the corner of his eye and turning to face him once again. “Reminiscing, I guess. He kind of ran away from home.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. The sudden increase of interest in the air was almost tangible. Was running away really such a universally relatable concept, or did Mikey just have lousy taste in friends?

“No, you're right,” he directed at Pete, effectively stopping the conversation in its tracks. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

The other two dropped the subject, but Mikey could tell that it was in no way over. He'd known Pete for about a day and could already tell that curiosity was one of his flaws – one of many, if Patrick was to be believed. Still, they changed the subject conspicuously, and for that Mikey was grateful. He'd honestly rather debate the merits of another Jaws movie (“They've already tried to ruin the franchise three times; do we really need another one?”) than think about his brother.


	10. Chapter 10

Frank was growing increasingly worried that Chicago wouldn't live up to his expectations. Granted, he didn't have many expectations in the first place: he knew that it was a city, and like all other cities, he assumed that it was big and chrome and glamorous and had pride parades every other weekend. In reality, it was... well, at least it was big.

“Chill out, dude,” Ray told him, map in one hand and wheel in the other. He'd tried to get Frank to read the map for him, but Frank was not up for that, no way. When they inevitably got lost, he didn't want it to be his fault. “All you've seen so far are the slums. It's really not as bad as you think.”

“I'm pretty sure these people could mug me with their eyes,” Frank insisted. “Seriously -- wait, was that a dude getting shot in the face by a gang of giant rats? <i>I fucking think so.</i>” There were no giant rats, obviously, but there were probably people getting shot in the face at that very moment, and the scene in Frank's mind wouldn't be remotely out of place against the backdrop of crumbling plaster and plywood. He never thought he'd be in a position in which getting his dick eaten by attack dogs was a legitimate possibility.

“You'll be fine. He lives in the actual city part of Chicago, I swear. In a high rise,” Ray assured him.

Frank crossed his arms. “There are trashy high rises.”

~

They got lost, of-fucking-course, but at least it wasn't Frank's fault. He was personally content just driving around and taking in the city sights, marginally more glamorous than the slums. The only city he'd ever visited before was Erie, Pennsylvania to meet his cousins for the first and only time, and that place barely even counted. They had, like, two buildings taller than four stories, and one of them was abandoned. While not exactly glamorous (Frank assumed they were in the lame part of the city, large but residential) it was much more impressive than Erie.

Sightseeing lost its appeal when Ray and Gerard started arguing about directions.

“Stop back-seat driving,” Ray said, irate. “I know what I'm doing.”

At the next red light, Gerard kicked Frank out of his spot and started passenger-seat driving instead. Frank tried his best to tune them out, considered playing guitar but decided against it on the basis that Ray was in a bad mood and would probably yell at him. Plus, he couldn't play for shit when he was stressed out. He stared at his hands in his lap instead, glanced out the window occasionally and then right back when the motion sickness set in. It was definitely worse when he was surrounded by tall buildings, like he was seeing the world through a fish-eye lens. Frank decided that he liked the idea of living in the city, because he was sure he'd get used to it over time, but visiting was something else entirely. He suddenly felt tiny and insignificant in the face of all those masses of people. Without thinking, he voiced this thought aloud during a lull in Ray and Gerard's conversation.

“Well, you are tiny. I'll give you that,” Gerard agreed, squinting at him in the rear-view.

“Fuck you! Way to make me feel better,” Frank grumbled.

Ray seemed to find this hilarious, and wasn't afraid to show it through bouts of infectious laughter. “Wow, Gerard, never thought you'd go for such a small-town kid.”

Gerard tried to glare but was already laughing. “Shut up; <i>you don't know me</i>!”

“He'll fight you,” Frank added sagely.

There was a moment of silence, and then Ray suddenly slapped his head in acknowledgement of his own stupidity. “Dude, what the hell am I thinking? I have this guy's number! Jeez,” and he fumbled around in the glove box one-handed, finally pulling out a clunky cellphone and a Post-It with a name and number. Frank was impressed not only that he remembered to write it down, but also that he did so on a legitimate post-it note. Frank would have just as soon sharpied it on his arm.

“There you go,” Ray continued, passing the supplies back to Frank. “My reception is totally shit, so you'll have to wave it around until you get some bars. Just tell me when, okay? I can pull over.”

Frank nodded and started phone-waving immediately. Damn, he felt like a pirate or something – the real kind, not the kind that copied Disney movies in the basement – in search of digital treasure. A cyber pirate, and like, his sword was made of glowing pixelated fire. And he had goggles, because you never knew what kind of shit was going to fly in your eyes when you were pillaging the open data-seas. Frank would be the best pirate. He could be captain, and Gerard and Ray could swab the decks and chop up Frank's enemies with their pixel machettes.

“Wait, I've got -- shit, nevermind.”

“Lost it?” Ray asked. Frank nodded. “Want me to circle back?”

“Nah, it was like one bar for half a second. I'll just -- wait, it's back! Two bars! Three! Fuck, dude, pull over!”

Ray pulled over the first chance he got, and thank God, the signal didn't dissipate.

Frank was already on the job. “It's ringing,” he hissed loudly, holding the thing away from his ear like it was a live snake. “Oh, he -- yeah. Hello? This is -- no, this is Frank. One of your potential bandmates -- who's Ray?”

Ray rolled his eyes and snatched the phone from him, twisting his body impressively in the process. “Give me that. Hello? Yeah, this is Ray. No, we're fine, just a little lost.” A long pause. “Yeah, that's the one. We've driven around the block like five times, but I'm not seeing -- oh, you mean literally underneath. Okay, hang on.” And he cradled the phone between a shoulder and his ear, executed a smooth U-turn and slowed in front of a building they must have passed three times by now. Sure enough, there was a dude atop a shallow stairwell leading down into the ground, waving at them and then gesturing to the left, toward something that could have been an alien breeding facility but that Ray insisted was a parking garage.

He pulled in slowly and rolled down the window to punch some numbers into a keypad and lift a bar, talking hands-free on the phone the entire time. At last, Frank began to feel that tingle of excitement he had been waiting for since arriving in the city: he was miles and miles from home, traveling with near-strangers, slumming it on the streets. He was in a fucking band, kind of. And he had a fucking boyfriend, but not really. Whatever. The point was, everything was awesome and Frank was just a little bit awestruck.

Frank climbed out of the van before it stopped. His mom always yelled at him for that kind of shit, but nobody present gave half a fuck if he wanted to catapult himself out of a moving vehicle. The touchdown was a brief thrill, like taking a running leap onto an escalator. Technically, it was the exact opposite of that, jumping from something moving to something stationary, but the general idea was the same.

“Fuck yeah!” Frank exclaimed to nobody in-particular. He caught Gerard smiling as he emerged from behind the van and leaned up against the back doors.

“Excited, Frankie?” He asked, leaning in to kiss the top of his head in an uncharacteristically sappy gesture. Frank blushed from his toes to his ears, because fuck, that was the new Cutest Thing Ever. He wondered if this was how normal teenagers felt all the time.

An hell yes, he was excited. He was practically vibrating with it. Frank was in a fucking band.

Ray turned the corner then, guitar case on his back, dragging a suitcase case behind him and and cradling an amp under the other arm. Frank suddenly felt vulnerable, empty handed in the face of certain change. He didn't even have a fucking cigarette to calm his nerves. Now, Frank had never been huge on smoking, mainly because it was fucking hard for a kid to get a pack in Dogwood. Getting addicted was basically out of the question for purely logistical reasons, but that didn't mean Frank couldn't appreciate a smoke when it was offered. It helped when he was jittery, and he was certainly fucking jittery at the moment. From the dark bags under Gerard's eyes, Frank inferred that he could use one too.

“We just have to walk a block that way,” Ray informed them, gesturing back toward the gate. Frank took the opportunity to sprint ahead and hop said gate, really more of a plastic bar than anything. He stuck the landing. It was pretty damn graceful if he did say so himself. Frank should be a hurdler.

“Please don't break anything,” Ray called after him. “I'm assuming you don't have your insurance card on you.”

Frank didn't answer, just grinned and waited for the other two to catch up.

“Dude, calm down. He's gonna think you're psychotic or something,” Ray said as they fell in stride. He glanced at Gerard, waiting for assent at his expense, but was surprised to see that the little smile that had been almost ubiquitous since the phone call had disappeared, replaced by an expression of mild concern.

“You okay?” Frank asked, falling back to grab Gerard's hand boldly. Christ, it was clammy.

Gerard's reaction was slightly delayed, but he slowly let go and averted his gaze. “Yeah, fine.”

Frank felt like he should push it, but Gerard wasn't paying attention to him anymore, instead focusing intently on Ray's bouncing hair. Plus, he could see the drummer guy a block up, sitting on his stairs and watching them. He was stout, blond, wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants. Maybe slightly under-dressed if you were taking wind chill into account, but he looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't go inside if the temperature suddenly dropped twenty degrees, because fuck weather. Frank could admire that in a person, especially with how easily he got chilled.

“What's up?” The guy asked as they approached, standing up to lean against the wall. It was now apparent that he was smoking. Lucky bastard.

“You're Bob?” Ray asked amicably, already prepared to shake hands. Frank was briefly confused as to how they recognized each other, but then he remembered the hard-shell case strapped to Ray's back. Musicians, right. And upon further inspection, he spotted a pair of sticks in Bob's back pocket. Was this some kind of rocker identification code that he was missing out on? Frank wished he'd brought Lily -- er, his Les Paul. Or at least wished for a pick necklace, whatever, just something to let Bob know that he was a guitarist too, that he was <i>important</i>.

“Yep,” Bob informed them. “Now seriously, get in my house before you get mugged.”

Frank laughed, because Ray was glaring at the back of Bob’s head like it had done him some personal offense. He was obviously worried that more talk of mugging would set Frank off again, but whatever; Frank was totally over armed robbery. He was in a band. Muggers could suck his dick.

All was forgotten when he set foot in Bob’s apartment. It was -- okay, it wasn’t exactly magnificent or even well kept, but it was the first actual residence he’d entered in what felt like forever. And there, in the middle of the living room, was a drum set. Frank had never actually seen one in real life, which was admittedly kind of pathetic, but Dogwood High didn’t even have a music room, let alone drums. And they were fucking cool, okay? He really, really wanted to grab the sticks out of Bob’s pocket and go to town on those things. Hell, he might not even suck at it; how would he know unless he tried? But that would probably be impolite and would also involve touching Bob’s ass, something Frank was pretty sure nobody in the room would appreciate.

Ass-grabbing and awesome drums aside, Bob’s living room was a ‘living room’ in the vaguest sense of the term: there was a couch, yeah, but it was shoved in the corner behind a knee-high wall of amps. The walls were covered in what appeared to be foam and egg cartons, and the carpet was thick enough to get lost in. Frank had a pretty good idea of what the whole set-up was for, especially considering his hand in assembling the guest room back at home: soundproofing. Which meant he could be as loud as he wanted. Which was also awesome, because he realized belatedly how much it would suck having neighbors and having to be quiet all the time.

“Practice room,” Bob said, gesturing vaguely toward the drumset. “Kitchen,” he continued. “The room with Black Sabbath on the door is mine. The other one is for you. Somebody can take the couch if you like. I uh -- wasn’t expecting three of you.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Frank said maybe a little to excitedly. “We can share!”

Bob eyed them evenly and shrugged. “Whatever. You can dump your shit in there if you want.” Ray took him up on that offer, and for the awkward thirty seconds it took for him to toss his suitcase on the (single, solitary) bed, Frank stared at Bob and Bob stared at Frank. Frank thought that Bob’s lip ring was cool. He hoped that Bob was also mentally complimenting some aspect of his appearance, because if he wasn’t, chances were he was busy regretting offering up his home.

Then Ray emerged empty-handed and saved the day. “So this is Frank,” he said, slinging an arm around Frank’s shoulder to prove that he didn’t bite. Which wasn’t entirely true. “He plays guitar pretty well. I thought that maybe he could do rhythm.” Bob nodded noncommittally and turned his attention to Gerard. “That’s Gerard,” Ray elaborated. They waited for him to finish introducing himself. He didn’t though, just stared blankly at the wall above the couch.

Frank fidgeted. Ray fidgeted. Gerard twitched a little.

“I made cake but forgot to buy frosting,” Bob said nonchalantly, and if that wasn’t a non-sequitur, Frank didn’t know what was. Ray glanced around confusedly even as Bob was executing a one-eighty, making his way to the kitchenette and obviously expecting them to follow. “Yeah, I found this box of cake mix in the back of the cupboard and thought we could celebrate, I don’t know, this. With cake.”

Sure enough, there was a double-layer, unfrosted, approximately round chocolate cake on a baking sheet on the counter. And that was just... what?

“What?” Gerard asked dazedly.

Nobody spoke. They all stared at the cake.

“I really want to eat it,” Bob said slowly, “But without frosting, it kind of feels like blasphemy.”

Ray nodded in agreement, hair bouncing up and down. “Wait,” he said. “Do you have whipped cream? Just cover it in that.”

Gerard chose that moment to stop spacing out and join the conversation. “I tried that once. It melted everywhere.”

Frank was suddenly bombarded by two very conflicting issues: one, that was fucking blasphemy, desecrating a perfectly good cake with rocket-propelled cream and sugar. Frank wasn’t a baker by any means, but when he did make cake, he made a point to respect it. Of course, the other issue was that he was now mentally picturing Gerard trying to lick melting whipped cream off his plate.

As appealing as that image was, he stood up for baked-goods-related beliefs in the end, putting his hands on his hips and boldly declaring: “I am not letting you cover that thing with whipped cream.”

“Well, we don’t have any icing,” Bob pointed out. “And I’m sure as hell not eating it plain.”

“God, you guys do know you can make icing,” Frank said, rolling his eyes.

Ray looked genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, fucking really. I’ll make you some if you’re gonna pitch a fit about it. You have powdered sugar?”

Bob reluctantly turned around and began searching the cupboard. It turns out that they did indeed have powdered sugar, as well as the eggs, cocoa powder and trace amounts of vanilla that Frank demanded. There wasn’t a real mixing bowl, which meant he was going to have to do it by hand in one of those plastic things you poured chips into at parties, but at least it would taste good.

“Two tablespoons of water,” Frank ordered, and Bob hesitated.

“From the tap? Aren’t you supposed to use milk or something?”

Frank shook his head. “Lactose intolerant, dude. This is a hundred and ten percent milk free.”

Bob shrugged and dumped the water in the bowl. A hundred and ten percent. Frank wasn’t exactly sure how that worked, but it probably involved negative milk. What was the opposite of milk? Vinegar or something? He wondered what vinegar icing would taste like. Probably like vinegar.

Ray and Bob chatted while he mixed the goop, occasionally adding more water when it got too thick. “I feel kind of shitty,” Bob admitted. “This defeats the whole purpose of the cake.”

“Dude, the purpose of cake is to eat it,” Ray said.

Bob nodded gingerly. “But it was supposed to be, I don’t know, hospitality.”

“Hey,” Frank cut in. “At least you tried.”

“Yeah, just thank God that this little shit has a chocolate frosting recipe memorized.”

Frank stopped stirring and rested an indignant hand on his hip, smearing chocolate frosting on his jeans in the process. He took offense. “My mom taught me how to make that,” he said.

Bob laughed and punched him in the arm. It actually kind of hurt. “How old is this kid?” He joked.

Ray shrugged.

“Thirty,” Frank said firmly, rubbing his damaged arm with the hand holding the spoon. He resisted the urge to shake said spoon in Bob’s face only because he was an apron away from becoming his mom as it was. “Now somebody get me a spatula. No, not that kind,” he sighed when Bob pulled a pancake spatula out of the drawer.

“There’s more than one kind of spatula?”

“A frosting spatula.” He was met only with blank stares. “You know, like a palette knife?”

Bob furrowed his eyebrows and sniffed once. “I don’t think I have one of those,” he said.

“Ah, whatever,” Frank sighed. “Just get me the widest knife you have.”

The widest knife Bob had was a fucking monstrosity. Seriously, the thing could be mistaken for a meat cleaver. What the hell did the guy even use it for, chopping up live moose?

Frank chuckled incredulously but took it nonetheless, turning the faucet to hot and dolloping a healthy glob of frosting on the bottom layer. He answered Ray’s quizzical stare before he got the chance to ask the question. “It spreads way better if the knife is hot.”

They nodded in agreement -- simultaneously, which was hilarious -- and watched intently as Frank frosted the cake with an expert hand. He was pretty awesome at cake frosting if he did say so himself. That should be an Olympic sport, along with sock-skating. Frank would win all of the Olympics. All of them. Except, okay, he wasn’t exactly as great at cooking as he made out to be: better than Gerard, sure. Better than Ray, definitely. He was okay at every aspect of cooking that didn’t involve heat of any sort, to be honest. His mom helped him when there were guests over -- those shortbread cookies were all him, though, and he was pretty damn proud of them -- because even though he set basically everything on fire, it wasn’t like she had time to do everything herself with the rest of the business to manage. He made a point to prepare cold dishes whenever possible, because apparently guests didn’t appreciate it when the smoke alarm went off.

“Okay, okay, stop. It’s perfect; don’t fuck it up,” Ray said, all but grabbing the knife from his hand.

“That’s code for ‘I want to eat this right now’,” Bob said knowingly.

Frank was already slicing it diagonally while Ray searched the cupboards for plates. “Fuck you guys; I want to eat this right now.” And without further ado, he shoveled his own piece onto the plate Ray provided and sat down, not bothering to serve the other three, because cake! And of course Ray took forever.

“Guys. Guys. Gimme a fork!” Nobody acknowledged him. “Guys!”

Frank scrunched up his nose.

“I’ll eat this with my face.”

“Don’t eat it with your face,” Ray sighed.

“I’ll eat it with my <i>face</i>!”

And nobody got him a fork, so Frank shrugged and shoved his face in the cake. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, because now he had cake in his eyelashes, but he also had cake in his mouth, which was awesome.

He emerged chewing happily, only to come face-to-face with a very bemused Bob.

“You'd better figure out how to get that off, because I'm not letting you get cake in my shower drain,” he said.

“Get Gerard to lick it off,” Ray laughed, sitting down.

Frank wiped his face with his hoodie sleeve and started attempting to suck the frosting out of it, ignoring Ray's mildly disgusted glance. “Don't, dude, he would actually do it.”

“Oh!” Ray snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. You have to sleep on the couch tonight and I'll room with Gerard.”

“W-why?” Frank whined.

“Because I'm not going to let him fuck you on Bob's bed.”

Frank's jaw nearly dropped.

Really? He was just going to come out and say it like it wasn't a big deal? Well, at least in Frank's mind, it wasn't a big deal, but he had no idea how Bob would feel about the situation. He could be some kind of crazy gay ax murderer for all they knew – that is, a dude who killed gay dudes, not a gay dude who killed everyone else. Frank's worrying was cut short, however, because Bob just shrugged and ate his cake: apparently, he didn't feel anything about the situation.

Frank huffed indignantly to fill the space while he thought of a retort. “Frank Iero is nobody's bitch! What makes you think he fucks <i>me</i>?”

Ray actually dropped his fork to stare him down. “Dude. I've known you for like two days and I can tell.”

“How?” He frowned.

Ray didn't answer, so he turned to Bob. “How can people <i>tell</i>?”

“Don't drag me into this,” Bob said.

Frank rolled his eyes and shoved a handful of cake in his mouth. Whatever, he could totally top if he wanted to. They hadn't even technically done it yet, so there was still time! And if Gerard did top the first time, which admittedly, he probably would, they could like, switch, right? Probably. He didn't see why they couldn't.

“Hang on, guys,” Ray said, looking around. “Where is Gerard?”

He shrugged and scanned the kitchen/living room/practice room, but Ray was right: Gerard was nowhere to be found. How had Frank not noticed him leave?

“Don't know,” Bob added. “He looked kind of sick, though.”

There was a short pause, and then Ray and Frank stood up at the exact same moment with intentions to check the bathroom. Now that they were listening for it, the sound of running water was very apparent. Frank had a bad feeling in his gut.

Bob's bathroom was nearly identical to every other apartment bathroom on planet Earth: a tiny shower, cabinet with sink, and a porcelain toilet with one of those fuzzy covers on top in case you wanted to sit on it ass-naked while it was closed. There was also a matching green shag bathmat, upon which Gerard was currently kneeling, head hanging above the bowl, greasy black hair obscuring his face. Fuck.

Ray turned off the sink, now revealed as the source of the noise.

“Shit, Gee, fuck! Are you okay?” Frank asked, on his knees and clutching Gerard's head to his chest before he realized what he was doing. Even though he wasn't okay. Obviously.

Gerard shook him off and met Frank's eyes. Christ, he was pale: paler than usual, if that was even possible, his eyes red and puffy and bags too dark to attribute to lack of sleep. He hadn't been this pale ten minutes ago.

“Frankie,” he mumbled blearily, looking up, slightly unfocused. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?” He asked again, holding Gerard steady with a hand cupped under his chin.

“No, yeah. M'fine. Uh, just kind of threw up. 'S nothing.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “How do you <i>kind</i> of throw up? It's not nothing.”

“I'm fine,” Gerard insisted. “Just a stomach thing. Uh, sorry,” and he smiled weakly. “I know this is kind of a shitty first impression.” He held up a cautioning finger in the universal gesture for 'give me a second' and promptly dry-heaved into the toilet.

“Dude, do you wanna lay down or something?” Ray cut in worriedly, and to Frank's dismay, Gerard nodded in assent and allowed Ray to help him to his feet. Maybe it was selfish, but Frank felt that he ought to be the one taking care of Gerard – no, he reminded himself: they were in a band. Closer than lovers, was what he'd said, and he wasn't going to allow himself to indulge in hypocrisy for a minute.

“I'll go get a pot in case he's gonna barf more,” Frank piped up. He could at least try to help.

Bob led him back into the kitchen to pick out a suitable item of kitchenware while Ray – Frank didn't know, probably fucking tucked him in and started reading bedtime stories. He wasn't jealous, not plagued by the thought of Gerard screwing other people. Quite the opposite: Frank hadn't even <i>met</i> Mikey and the thought of him and his brother together was downright mouthwatering. No, Gerard could fuck around as much as he wanted. Frank was only worried, if he was going to admit it to himself, that Gerard would find somebody better and they would stop... hanging out. That couldn't happen, because Gerard was Frank's only anchor in this strange new world outside of Dogwood, NJ, and he would be completely lost without him. Frank might literally die.

When he returned with another plastic chip bowl, Ray was attempting to feed Gerard some sort of green liquid in a paper cup.

“Good, awesome,” Ray said in a tone clearly implying that things were in no way awesome, “you can just rinse and spit in here.” He grabbed the bowl from Frank’s hand and held it out for inspection. Gerard, deeming it satisfactory, downed the mouthwash and swished it around for a good ten seconds, making faces all the while, before giving up and spitting. He was so goddamn pale, Frank thought. And there was spit in the corner of his mouth and his hair had apparently suffered the trauma of a week unwashed in the past few minutes; he probably tasted like vomit and minty-fresh mouthwash, and Frank still wanted to kiss him.

He settled for a hug, though, crawling onto the bed and sitting behind Gerard, a leg on either side of him. Gerard scooted back from the edge and into Frank’s grasp. He twisted impressively to bury his face in Frank’s shoulder. Stubble scratched across his neck.

“Gee,” Frank asked softly. “Are you sure this is just a bug?”

Gerard didn’t answer, just rolled off him and tried to squirm under the covers. He managed, with Bob’s assistance, and though Frank waited, didn’t say a word.

“Just let him sleep,” Ray said, patting his shoulder. “It’s probably exhaustion. I’ll keep an eye on him tonight and--” He furrowed his eyebrows worriedly: Frank started to emit a high-pitched whine, involuntarily, biting his lip. He didn’t -- he didn’t want to cry; he wasn’t going to fucking cry, not in front of Ray and Bob, because it was probably just a twenty-four hour thing. It would pass, and Gerard would be fine.

He had trouble stopping it though, so he compromised by shoving himself bodily into Ray’s chest, hiding his eyes. “Shh, dude, don’t -- you don’t have to -- it’s gonna be okay,” Ray assured him, only mildly panicked. There was a hand on his head, probably Bob’s, patting him awkwardly. “He’s gonna be fine, alright? I’ll watch him and give him anything he needs, and you just rest.”

Frank got himself under control and pulled away, wiping his nose. Ray was staring at him with big brown eyes, and he was struck by the mental image of a puppy licking his master’s wounds.

“You want me to get you a blanket?” Bob asked. Frank nodded miserably.

It wasn’t even late, but he was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. Frank crawled through the jungle of instruments and curled up on the couch with the intention of sleeping for days, or at least until he wasn’t in danger of crying anymore, and was barely awake by the time he felt the blanket on top of him, warm and heavy. He didn’t dream that night, but he did wake up several times before the sun even went down, keeping his eyes closed and listening to Ray and Bob converse in hushed tones in the kitchen.

~

Gerard woke up in a cold sweat.

There was something surrounding him: a suffocating, living darkness. He could see it flitting around the edges of his vision like some sort of optical illusion, only there when he wasn’t looking. And God, he was dizzy somehow, still on his back, but the world seemed to be spinning without him, hurtling around the sun at seven hundred thousand miles an hour and leaving him behind.

He didn’t know where he was, only that there was someone warm next to him, stirring gradually into wakefulness. At some point during the night, it seemed like everything below his thighs had stopped existing, replaced instead by a sickly, warm tingling sensation. There was somebody there, and that was important: if he could just figure out who it was, he could figure out where he was and be released from the prison of his own body. He was shaking, convulsing, and couldn’t make it stop.

“Gerard! Gerard, are you okay?”

There were hands on his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. He wished that he really could wake up, that this was just a dream that he wouldn’t remember come morning. He knew that wasn’t how it worked. He’d been through this before, sweltering nights spend cocooned in his sheets, empty pill bottles on his bedside table. Something in his sluggish brain clicked. That was -- that had to be what was going on. He’d run out of pills again. Which meant that he just had to power through the chills and the head rushes, the molasses warmth spreading throughout his muscles and making his whole body ache. It also meant that he was safe, tucked under his USS Enterprise sheets, and that there was only one person who could possibly be next to him, with one hand on his pulse and the other supporting his back, lifting him into a sitting position. The dizziness was so intense that he would have fallen of the bed if not for that support.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. Do you -- do you need water? Should I take you to the hospital?”

Gerard only vaguely understood what was going on, but he heard the word ‘hospital’ and shook his head violently, nearly knocking himself over in the process. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. That was the last place he wanted to be, with the blindingly white rooms and the paper gowns and the way his skin looked almost transparent under the fluorescents. No, he just needed to be held right now. He could fight his way through this.

He kept trying to let go of Gerard though, kept pushing him off, so Gerard flung his arms around his shoulders and buried his face in his neck. He didn't need water, and he didn't need to go to the fucking hospital; he just needed to stay in this position forever.

“Do you know what's going on?” He asked Gerard, speaking slowly, as if to a child. Gerard nodded. “I'm going to get help.”

It was reassuring as it was futile: his presence was helping Gerard, and though he couldn’t see clearly, there was no one else who could possibly be holding him above the surface:

“No,” Gerard whined. “No, Mikey.”

Mikey tried to say something, looked around confusedly, but Gerard wasn't going to let him leave. He was suddenly reminded of all the nights he had to do this alone, knowing Mikey was mere feet away but that he couldn't let himself touch, because he knew he would do something stupid in his altered mental state. But he was past that point now. He had done something stupid already, and the recollection was drifting lazily through his fevered brain: quick flashes of sensation: the feel of Mikey's skin under his fingertips, slick with blood, the taste of his mouth and the wet slide of Mikey's tongue against his. That meant that the deed was done. He was sure he had been worried about it at some point, but if Mikey was here now, cradling him this way, Gerard assumed that all was forgiven. And for that he was infinitely grateful.

Suddenly, it wasn't about Gerard anymore: it was about Mikey and his incredible, unconditional love for his brother. Gerard nuzzled into his neck and bit down lightly, a silent acknowledgement that everything was okay, that if Mikey wanted things to be how they were, back when a kiss on the cheek had no connotations and they didn't think twice about sleeping in the same bed, Gerard was okay with that. If Mikey was going to accept their attraction, Gerard would too.

He felt Mikey tense under him, no doubt just as shocked at the intensity of these new feelings as he was. “It's okay,” Gerard mumbled into his neck, and then pulled back, eyes still closed. “I love you.” And his kissed Mikey softly, closed-mouthed. Mikey didn't kiss back, but that was fine. He was probably unsure if Gerard wanted to do this now, when he was sick, but didn't understand that it would make them both feel better. That even if Gerard was shaking and his head was pounding and he was having trouble distinguishing between reality and the half-dreams watching him from the dark corners of the room, everything was perfect because this was how things were supposed to be: Mikey holding Gerard and Gerard holding Mikey, reunited after so many months of self-imposed emotional separation.

Gerard was in no state to explain this with words, so he went straight for the kill, boundaries temporarily non-existent. He buried his face in Mikey's shoulder once more, inhaling his suddenly foreign scent – had their time apart changed that too? – and palmed him through his flimsy boxers. Mikey wasn't hard, but that was probably a product of the circumstance. Gerard aimed to change that, kneading firmly and mouthing at his neck, biting once in awhile because he knew Mikey was into that. Not too much, though: this wasn't supposed to be as rough as usual, because he only wanted to show his brother that he was okay, that they were both okay and that everything as going to be fucking okay for once in their lives.

“Gerard, what are you--?”

But Gerard shushed him with another kiss, this one much deeper, much more intimate than the first. Mikey resisted at first, clamped his lips shut and refused to move, but Gerard could feel the exact moment his facade cracked, because it all happened at once: he opened his mouth, just a little, and passively allowed Gerard to slip his tongue inside, started getting hard under Gerard's hand. That was his cue to shove said hand down Mikey's pants, wrap a fist around him and start jerking him off in earnest. It took a little coaxing, but the way he moaned into Gerard's mouth was absolutely worth it.

“G – Ger -- stop, you're -- you're delirious or something--” he choked out, pushing Gerard off, but his body gave him away. Mikey was surprisingly strong – stronger than he remembered – but Gerard compensated by throwing his weight into it, pinning him to the bed and straddling a leg. He opened his eyes but couldn't see Mikey's face through the mental fog, only a vague blur of non-empty space. Gerard could feel, though, and so he did: ran his hands down Mikey's newly muscled torso, up under his shirt to feel the ribs, usually unhealthily prominent but now barely there. Into his hair. There was something very wrong there, but he couldn't take the time to ponder it with Mikey's cock pressing into his thigh.

The darkness closed in on him, making him simultaneously light-headed and tense. He tried not to black out, held his world steady by focusing on all the places Mikey’s skin touched his. His own personal Atlas.

He came back to himself thirty seconds later, and somehow his pants were gone and his tongue was in somebody else's mouth. He was jerking them off. That was... who again? No, no, he remembered: it was a pill thing. It had to be, because time was moving in bursts, slow in some places and lightning quick in others, and every part of his body ached with no apparent cause. That meant that it had to be Mikey, because nobody else helped him through the withdrawal. Well, he hadn't really let Mikey help before because he knew it would end up like this, with his hand in Mikey's pants, but things were okay between them now. They had to be, because Mikey wasn't protesting. Rather, he thrust up into Gerard's hand and mumbled his name over and over again, voice intense and breathless. That was okay. That was fucking beautiful.

“Love you, Mikes,” Gerard whispered shakily, and then Mikey came, sudden and silent. Which was weird, because for such a stoic guy, his brother could get fucking <i>loud</i>, but this time he didn’t make a sound save a tiny sigh, like a weight was being lifted from his shoulders. <i>My world</i>, Gerard thought. He wished he wouldn’t inevitably forget his Atlas metaphor by morning, because that would be a beautiful sketch: Mikey, back bowed under the mass of an enormous ball of darkness.

It was actually a surprise when he felt himself being flipped over, shoved onto his back, because he had temporarily forgotten what was going on, but it came rushing back to him when he felt -- rather than saw -- Mikey hovering over him.

“Gerard,” he was hissing, and Gerard tried his best to listen. Mikey didn’t say things if they weren’t important. “Gerard. You’re sick.”

Gerard nodded. He was sick. But Mikey was smart; he knew how to take care of his brother.

“You need to stop this,” said Mikey.

He frowned. Stop being sick?

“Mikey,” Gerard mumbled, speech almost too slurred to be understandable. “Don’t wanna-- just. Mm?” And he couldn’t explain what he did want, not with his heart in his throat and the rest of his body on a different astral plane entirely, so he grabbed his brother’s hand and guided it none-too-subtly to his crotch. He was-- Christ, he was so close to coming. There was that tension, that buildup, like everything going on in his body was slowly intensifying, from the blinding headache and the mild nausea to the stunning, blissful pleasure in his gut. He knew that all the bad things would go away if Mikey would just press down a little harder. He wasn’t even stroking, just grinding the heel of his hand downward, and it was almost enough.

“Mikey Mikey Mikey,” He chanted under his breath, begging as best he could with his vocabulary limited as it was. If Mikey would just do something, literally anything, Gerard was going to lose it. It was an incredible feeling, standing on the edge of the precipice and looking down.

Everything hurt, sharp and pulsing and burning all at once. The barriers between him and the body above him were blurring until he was no longer sure who he was, Gerard or Mikey, maybe a little bit of both, and the pain became excruciating. Every nerve in his body was going into overload, screaming out for some sort of release, be it death or climax. They were one and the same in that moment, much like the two of them. Just bodies on the bed in the guest room of Bob Bryar’s flat in Chicago, Illinois. Third planet from the sun, galaxy indistinguishable from the rest of their universe’s mass of stars and light pollution. He felt so tiny, so insignificant in that instant; in so much agony, both physical and psychological, that he couldn’t feel it all alone. So he let go, let the pain become part of existence's collective consciousness, spread so thin over so many thousands of trillions of light-years that it became almost non-existent in the grand scheme of things. He was everything and nothing all at once. He was content, in total bliss; he didn’t need those pills and he was going to die without them. For a moment he thought that maybe he was dying, but then Mikey shifted just a fraction of an inch and he discovered otherwise.

Gerard came, choking and trembling on freshly-laundered sheets, and it was so magnificent that he couldn’t feel it at all. It wasn’t pleasure, rather, a lack of pain so complete that maybe the pain had never existed in the first place, had festered only inside his bruised psyche. He came, maybe dying a little in the process, and before he drifted into unconsciousness, he felt Ray breathing into his neck.

~

Frank woke to a commotion. Ray yelling. Something was very wrong, but it wasn't until he heard Gerard's voice that he forced his eyes open. The sun was just coming up, dawn streaming through the high, tiny windows in chunks of pinkish light. Ray was in the nearest such patch, hands in his hair, pacing back and forth; it gave him an almost angelic quality, the very image of righteous vengeance. Bob was sitting at his feet, still in boxers and a nightshirt, looking mildly stunned, and there was somebody curled up in the chair across from the two of them, completely shrouded in the combined shadow of Ray and the drum kit.

“I didn't think it would get so bad this time,” Gerard said weakly.

Ray paused the pacing in front of him. “Jesus Christ, you should have told me!”

“I didn't know – I -- I haven't even told Frank.”

Frank sat up at the mention of his name, but if anybody noticed, they didn't show it. Gerard stared right through him with hollow eyes.

“You can't just <i>quit</i>. You can't just fucking quit cold turkey, Gerard; you could have <i>died</i>!”

“I wouldn't have died,” Gerard said softly. His knees were pulled up to his chest and his hair was a total wreck, to the point that even the thought of combing it out made Frank's scalp tingle. “I told you it's happened before, when I lived in Belleville.”

“One dose is a completely different story. Fuck. I can't fucking believe you would--”

“What did you expect me to do? Tell you and wait to get thrown out on the street?”

“I wouldn't throw you out,” Ray said through clenched teeth.

“You say that now--”

“Guys,” Bob cut in suddenly, standing up and effectively silencing Gerard. “There's no use arguing about it now. We don't know if the next wave is going to hit, and if it does, we need to be ready.” He paused, glanced at his feet and then resolutely back at Gerard. “You need more pills.”

“That’s the last thing he needs!” Ray exclaimed reflexively, obviously a subscriber to the ‘any amount of a bad thing’ philosophy, but Bob kept his voice level and reasonable:

“I’ve had friends who’ve used the same stuff. This one guy, Bert; I stayed with him and his friend John for a few months. He tried to quit cold turkey, too, and I’m not going to let Gerard go through that. It’ll be more than tolerable -- it’ll be fucking easy if we can just wean you off slowly.”

There was a long silence, thoughtful on Ray's part, almost certainly deafening on Gerard's. Frank was the first to speak, and the others looked to him as if seeing him for the first time:

"I agree with Bob," he said quietly. Frank didn't know much about prescription drugs or really any type of drugs at all; he honestly had no idea if decreasing the dosage in increments would do anything to help at all, but he knew that he couldn't stand seeing Gerard like this, broken and feverish and bearing his pain without a word.

Ray nodded slowly. Gerard didn't. It struck Frank that they were deciding his fate for him at this point, but considering the state he was in, it probably couldn't be helped.

Fuck, he just wanted Gerard to be okay.

"I know a guy who can get him more," Bob said, voice still inhumanly even. "He may even have them on him. I'll call right now. Until then, just try to keep him warm and hydrated, okay?" This last part was directed at Frank. Finally assigned a task with at least some actual value, he jumped up without a word and set to work warming water in the microwave. Not coffee-hot, but warm enough to heat him from the inside out. Why not kill two birds with, uh, eight ounces of lukewarm fluid?

He tried to tune out the sound of Bob dialing, preferring not to think about Bob or his inexplicable connections -- Frank wasn't going to judge. He just hoped Gerard was the only one of them with substance abuse issues.

"Do you think you can drink this?" Frank asked, kneeling beside the the quivering lump of Gerard in the recliner. Gerard poked just the top of his head out of the make-shift blanket-fort, giving the impression of a groundhog emerging from its hole. Gerard frowned. Six more weeks of winter.

"What is it?" He asked.

Frank resisted the urge to say 'vodka' on the grounds that it would probably be insensitive.

"Just water."

Gerard stared at him dolefully. "You know what?" Frank said, setting the glass on a stray tom -- if Bob was offended by the blatant mistreatment of his drums, he could go fuck himself -- "I'll get you a pot anyway."

~

The guy's place was a good ways away, so Ray offered up the van for use. They bundled Gerard in the huge wool monstrosity despite his protests that he was fine, that it was summer and he wasn't going to die from fifteen minutes not swathed in the handiwork of some starving Chinese children in labor camps (his words, not Frank's). Nobody listened; they just strapped him in the back and Frank kept him company while Bob gave directions.

He wanted to say something -- Frank really wanted to break what he suspected was tension between them -- but was too worried to follow through. About everything: Gerard's health, mainly, but also about his drug use in the first place. This whole ordeal was so fucking sudden: one minute, Frank was mentally brushing up on his major extension scales, and the next Gerard was throwing up in a pot and <i>Frank</i> was almost throwing up in a pot, just from the sheer, nausea-inducing intensity of the situation. Gerard should have told them he was off his pills. Frank would have gotten him more, no matter what it took. He would have sucked dick in Gerard's place. That was how you got drugs, right? But then again -- and Frank only felt a little bad for thinking this -- Gerard would probably rather do the job, if their first encounter, with Gerard all but coming in his pants, was anything to go by.

Frank smiled sadly and rested his head against Gerard's shoulder, or rather the itchy wool thing covering it. He smelled better than usual, which was pretty weird considering getting him to bathe of his own accord was about as easy as getting a stray cat to bathe of it's own accord. A stray cat with rabies. Then, of course, he noticed that Gerard's hair was still wet -- how could he not notice, with his face trying to assimilate itself into said hair? And somebody must have forced him to shower before Frank woke up. He vaguely wished that he could have helped, and Christ, Frank really was turning into his mom.

He was just debating whether or not Gerard had drifted off when he spoke. "I'm sorry," Gerard mumbled, squirming a bit and freeing a hand to stroke Frank's hair.

He was still mildly offended that Gerard hadn't so much as mentioned his pills, but Frank was kind of stunned that he was apologizing. Okay, he wasn't really, because Gerard was always fucking apologizing, but he was stunned that he was apologizing for that specifically.

Wait, fuck, maybe he wasn't, and Frank was just jumping to conclusions. "About what?" He asked, just to be safe.

Gerard frowned and cast his eyes downward to the mess of tableture and picks littering the van floor. "I don't know," he said. "Upsetting you. Getting in the way of the band."

And oh, that was a completely different story. Frank snorted. "What band? We haven't even practiced yet. We don't even have a singer. This wasn't even a problem until like two days ago."

He smiled in an attempt to get Gerard to do the same, because yeah, he was upset, but he didn't want to foist that burden upon the both of them if he could help it. And Gerard did try to smile, sort of, but gave up halfway through and let his facial muscles relax, making him look more tired than anything.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm just... things are getting kind of heavy. And I'm fucking exhausted." As if Frank couldn't tell by the bruised semi-circles under his eyes.

Frank stopped smiling too.

"Gerard," he said seriously, lifting his head to look him in the eye, "Last night, what did you--" but then the van skidded to a halt and Frank nearly rocketed out of his seat, saved only by the seatbelt. Not because he was wearing it, mind you, but because Gerard was wearing it and Frank had the forethought to grab Gerard.

"Shit," he breathed once the metaphorical dust had settled. And maybe literal dust, because he could feel a coughing fit coming on.

"Sorry!" Ray called from the front, and for once, Frank thought the apology was warranted.

"He found a parking spot," Bob added helpfully.

Gerard shuffled out of the van with all the cheer of a funeral procession, but Bob stopped Frank when he tried to follow. “You and Ray should probably stay and watch the van so you don’t get towed. We won’t be long,” he said, and for a moment Frank felt something akin to antipathy. Not anger, exactly, but just as intense and more blind in its disregard to reason or circumstance. He didn’t want to wait in the goddamn van while Gerard hung out at some drug dealer’s house: he wanted to cling to his arm and never let go again, like an annoying tumor that occasionally offered handjobs.

The rage subsided, though, and he put it on the back burner. Bob was right. And maybe they didn’t both need to sit in the car to avoid a ticket, but if he didn’t want Frank to come with them, he obviously had a good reason.

And so Frank waited, tried to shut his mind off and curl up on the seat. He couldn’t sleep, not on such short notice, not with thoughts and concerns and opinions all vying for attention in his cramped head, so he just closed his eyes and became dead to the world until Bob returned, wallowing in bouts of overblown self pity when not thinking became too tiresome.

Bob did come back, fifteen minutes later. Alone.

“They got caught up talking. Gerard started -- uh, I think there’s a little counseling session going on in there. I gave him the home number and told him to call when he wanted to come back,” he said, sliding easily into the passenger’s seat.

Frank died a little bit.


	11. Chapter 11

In retrospect, Gerard’s feelings for his brother were nothing new. They had always been close -- abnormally close, though throughout Gerard’s childhood, the thought that maybe the schoolyard whispers and backward glances in the supermarket might hold some weight never once crossed his mind. Yes, Gerard had known people with brothers, some that got along and some that didn’t -- hell, he knew fucking twins, and they had nothing near the level of emotional connection that Gerard and Mikey shared. And if Gerard was sure of anything, he was sure (suddenly, inexplicably) not only that he was in love with his brother, but that he always had been. Yes, he sounded stupid and sick and overly convicted when he put it in those terms, but the signs had always been there, like this affection was the undercurrent slowly drawing them together. For instance:

Gerard was seventeen going on eighteen in the beginning of his senior year, and he had never had sex. He wasn’t unattractive then, at least not in his eyes, not compared to what he _had_ been, but he was forever the outcast. Associating yourself with Gerard Way may not have been social suicide at that point, but it was pretty damn close, so naturally he was still a virgin: nobody wanted to fuck the kid who talked once in his entire semester of Physics.

Only few weeks after school was back in session, Mikey came home to the near-perpetually empty house, save for Gerard, and calmly broke the news: he was four years ahead of his game.

He sat down at the kitchen table where Gerard was eating his toast, or rather, doodling and occasionally glancing at the piece of toast sitting next to him, and Mikey was fucking smirking: a quiet, satisfied little thing that made Gerard’s heart stutter. Of course he asked -- how could he not _ask_?

“What’re you smiling about?”

And he still remembered Mikey’s exact response:

“I fingered Sarah Lewis in the bathroom today.”

It was nonchalant and easy, but Gerard could tell that he was ridiculously pleased with himself. He felt like he should be appalled, disgusted, or at least mildly indignant that Mikey considered this suitable after-school-snack conversation material, because that was a normal reaction to the situation. And Gerard tried to be normal; he really did, but the awkwardness that seemed so omnipresent in his life just wouldn’t come, replaced only by curiosity. He got details -- Mikey was the fucking kind of too much information -- and really, it was his fault for asking.

Mikey said that he and Sarah had been sitting together for the past week or so, and Sarah, who Gerard didn’t know but imagined as plainly pretty, had flirted with him pretty much the entire time. They had been in the hallway outside Mikey’s locker bay, chatting about nothing in-particular, when Sarah had kissed him. Straight up, no fanfare, and Gerard just didn’t understand the mentality behind that kind of thing. Was Mikey really so attractive that girls literally could not sit next to him without initiating make-outs? Of course, he now knew first hand that yes, this was the case exactly, but at the time it had seemed like an entirely foreign concept, animal magnetism. Anyway, it had gotten heavy and Mikey helped bear the weight. He just asked her -- just fucking _asked her_ \-- if she wanted to come to the bathroom with him, intentions clear as day.

He got stingy on the details at that point, only telling Gerard that she’d said yes – who wouldn't, given the chance? -- and that they’d found a stall in the empty girls’ bathroom together, and he had fingered her. It was so fucking deadpan that Gerard almost laughed when he said it, because if he were in Mikey’s place, he would be stuttering and blushing and maybe not explaining the situation at all -- okay, he took that back. He would tell Mikey, but he would do it awkwardly.

Spurred on by that single sentence, Gerard’s brain wrote volumes. The conversation ended there, and Gerard went back to his drawing and gave Mikey the toast when he asked for it, too lazy to make his own, but it never fully left Gerard’s consciousness. He spent the night sleepless, imagining the scene. He didn’t know a whole lot about the logistics of fingering a girl -- he understood female anatomy in a purely textbook sense of the word ‘understanding’, but he had no practical experience to speak of, so his overzealous imagination made up for it.

He would press her up against the stall wall with the weight of his body, gentle but secure, and go light on the foreplay. Maybe he’d slip a hand under her blouse to ghost over her sides, making her shiver; he wouldn’t take off her bra but would slip his thumb underneath to run the pad across a nipple, once, lightly, and she would be putty in his hands. He would lift her skirt with little preamble, maybe brushing lightly down her inner thighs before getting to the point and parting her lips with a single, slender finger. And fuck, Mikey’s hands were just perfect for this: he had been playing bass guitar for what, two years at that point? And his fingers were strong yet delicate, long and bony with bluntly rounded tips and nails tightly trimmed. He would run just one up and down, getting her wet and spreading it around enough to facilitate penetration. Maybe he would forgo that step entirely, just wet his fingers himself or -- fuck, Gerard was not picturing himself in her position -- shove two in her mouth.

Only when she had them coated with spit would he remove his hand and press one inside, slowly but not gently. She might moan at this; her legs might shake with the effort of holding herself upright, but Gerard couldn’t make the reactions real in his mind. All he could see was the single-minded determination in Mikey’s eyes as he crooked the finger upward just a little bit to press into her walls -- even if it was his first time, Gerard could picture Mikey as nothing but experienced -- and her shallow panting would only spur him on. Mikey would talk, too, because he was nowhere near shy. His deadpan was so real that Gerard almost thought he could hear it in the dry night air.

“Like that, huh? Do you want more?”

He would say it clinically, cold, because emotion was a non-renewable resource for Mikey and he was fucking good at conserving it. And she would nod and squirm against his hand, lean in and try to kiss him, but Mikey would pull away. He could be so vulnerable, so needy around Gerard, but sharing this intimacy with another person could never be the same. He would slip another finger inside, easy because she'd be so fucking wet already; he'd rub tight circles just above her clit with the pad of his thumb, hold her hip to the wall with his free hand. And he wouldn't kiss her back, not even when she was gasping and coming around his first two fingers. Not when she slumped against the stall and he supported her full weight.

Through it all, though her imaginary reactions were appealing, Gerard couldn't help but wonder how it felt from Mikey's perspective. Nothing had ever been easy for Gerard, but his brother seemed to breeze through life with an enviable indifference that somehow got him everything he wanted. Mikey was a fucking dork, okay: just as dorky as Gerard, and yet he was leaps and bounds ahead of Gerard from a social standpoint, and he was only a fucking freshman. This apparently applied to girls, too, because as much as he hated to admit it, Gerard was a virgin and Mikey was some kind of sex god.

And he knew he should be jealous, wanted to be jealous, but he wasn't. All that Gerard could make himself feel was mild curiosity.

That fact wasn't weird, in and of itself: no siblings go their entire lives without awkwardly discovering that their brothers and sisters are sexual beings, and of course Gerard wouldn't be able to get the thought out of his mind. It was new and foreign, and he needed some time to wrap his head around it. No, the weird part was that the next evening, playing Nintendo 64 in the basement, Gerard told Mikey.

They shared everything, as an unspoken rule: if Gerard wanted to know what Mikey ate for lunch, he would tell him, and if Mikey wanted to know where Gerard kept his porn stash, he would fucking tell him. That was just how it worked. So when Gerard paused the game and said flat-out:

"I've been imagining you finger-fucking that one chick,"

It was only because not mentioning it felt like lying.

Mikey put down his controller and turned toward him slowly, expressionless to a normal person but obviously thoughtful in Gerard's eyes. "Imagining it?" He asked, and Gerard could still remember the way he sucked his lower lip into his mouth.

"Yeah, just. I don't know what it was like for you."

And where a normal brother would have laughed at Gerard's inexperience and sealed his lips, Mikey got up to switch off the console; he nodded and explained. He explained that it was kind of awkward, that she was endearingly enthusiastic and that she pinned <i>him</i> against the inside of the stall door, guided his hand exactly where she wanted it and basically rode his fingers. And Mikey said that she wasn't afraid to tell him exactly what she wanted either -- "Another one. Yeah, Mikey, now bend up a little bit," Gerard's mental falsetto supplied. Mikey told him that she seemed to know exactly what she was doing, that he only had to play along and pretend he did too.

"Did you kiss her?" Gerard asked, eyes wide and boundaries down.

Mikey snorted. "The whole fucking time. She couldn't keep her mouth off me. And the best part -- the best part was at the end, ‘cause when she -- came, I guess, she stopped and bit my neck." He leaned forward from his cross-legged position on the couch and hastened to tug down the collar of his shirt for display: there were no teeth marks, but a fading pink hickey remained. "Cool, huh?" He asked, obviously expecting his brother to agree.

Gerard swallowed hard and nodded. "Like a battle scar," he said softly.

~

No, the Way brothers were everything but normal. Why he was currently explaining this to Adam -- the weird guy who had promised him drugs, made coffee and then sat him down and nodded sympathetically when he burst into tears without warning -- Gerard had no idea.

"I just -- I'm sorry, man, I know you don't give a shit about my problems--"

"No," Adam said, holding up a hand to stop him. "You need to talk. I can help you if I know what's wrong."

Gerard sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Fuck, he was out of it. Five minutes in and he was shaking uncontrollably, Bob holding his arms behind his back and Adam slipping a pill into his mouth and holding it shut, pressing a thumb just above his adams' apple to make him swallow. He had calmed down a little bit just from the immediate placebo effect, but the shaking was soon replaced by an overpowering wave of emotion. He couldn't control it -- of course not -- because Gerard had a problem with crying, always had. It must have been fucking awkward for Bob, or everyone involved, really, but Adam had had cut in.

"This happens a lot," he said. "I'm glad you called when you did, though, because in another hour he would have been crying and vomiting at the same time." Bob had grimaced and graciously left when Adam suggested that Gerard stay for a few hours. He insisted that he was prepared, that he had taken care of people in his situation before. Gerard was too far gone to consider the fact that Bob was leaving him, in essence, with a complete stranger, but he dismissed the thought when it occurred to him later: true, he didn't really know Bob either, but he trusted him.

And so Gerard just went with it. He drank the coffee and curled up on the couch when it was offered, and he spilled his guts for Adam's sake. He didn't know why, exactly; perhaps it was because Adam was a stranger, and though the threat of being spontaneously murdered in his presence increased slightly, the chance of anyone important finding out his darkest secrets was infinitesimal.

Gerard zoned out for a little bit, mind waiting for the drugs to kick in and dull the pain while his mouth ran of its own accord. “And when I tell you that I want to fuck him, I don’t want you thinking it’s a new obsession. And I don’t want you to think that I want to hurt him -- I mean, not anything real, outside the -- the metaphorical bedroom.”

“You want to fuck him?”

“More than that,” Gerard said, completely emotionless. There was no room left in his cracked voice for emotion, and honestly, it felt fucking good to talk about it like it was next week’s forecast, not burdened by the need for tact. “I have this weird fetish for -- not seeing him in pain, necessarily, but maybe making him show emotion. See, Mikey’s a very stoic kind of guy, so maybe that’s where that comes from. I don’t know. But pain is easiest because I guess I have a thing for blood, and--” he was past the point of feeling disgusted by this next thought: “--I like controlling him.”

There was a contemplative pause during which Gerard pondered the exact implications of this and Adam bit his lip thoughtfully. He was so collected, Gerard thought, especially for someone who sold drugs.

“It’s good that you can admit that,” Adam said at last. Gerard was tired and mostly trapped inside his own mind, sure, but he still found it just a little weird that Adam seemed more concerned about that issue than, y’know, fucking incest. Apparently sensing this, Adam continued. “I know; I know, but I’m going to believe you when you say it’s consensual. I’m not here to judge.” He wasn’t there to play counselor, either, but Gerard refrained from pointing that out. “And if he wants it -- Gerard, look at me,” he said, noticing Gerard’s gaze drifting downward.

He looked up to meet Adam’s eyes with a little effort, tried to focus. Fuck, Gerard didn’t consider himself a romantic (other people could consider him anything they liked) but Adam’s eyes were fucking gorgeous: pale, pale blue in sharp contrast to his dark hair. “This is important,” and Gerard focused again.

“He has to want it. If he wants it, then I can help you, but I am <i>not</i> going to let you force anything on him.”

Gerard thought about it. He honestly had little to go on save a kiss, a split lip, and a gut feeling, but that had to be enough. And if that wasn’t enough? If he came home only to find out that Mikey had fared better in his absence, that he had changed his mind? Gerard would leave. For good, maybe with Frank and Ray and Bob, maybe somewhere across the Atlantic. He was willing to take that risk.

“He wants it,” Gerard confirmed. “I told you what happened before I left. He -- he wants it.”

Once again, there was silence while Adam thought, brushed the hair out of his face, and Gerard came back to himself.

“One thing, and then we can talk about this,” Adam said. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

~

It wasn’t until Gerard was naked, blindfolded, and handcuffed to a chair that he began to wonder if he was in over his head. Yes, it may have also been because he was sobering up a little, (or the exact opposite, if he was going to get technical about it) but it occurred to him that maybe ‘helping’ was an excuse to fuck him, beat him up, and possibly murder him with a blunt object. And okay, Adam had promised to stop if he said ‘Aquarius’, but Adam had also promised to make another pot of coffee, and that was also forgotten at the first mention of sex.

Then, Adam had said, “It’s amazing how much stress the human body can take under the right circumstances. All you need is a little confidence, and I think understanding your brother’s position will give you that.” Now, he was saying “Hold still, bitch, and I won’t hit you again.”

His face still stung from the slap he didn’t see coming -- couldn’t fucking see coming, not with the goddamn blindfold -- and it was the shock more than the restraints that kept him from moving. He didn’t know what he expected, honestly, but he certainly hadn’t imagined that Adam would adopt the persona of unfeeling dictator so fucking fast. And God, did he like to run his mouth, apparently stating the obvious for -- Gerard didn’t know -- erotic effect or something. A bit like Frank in that respect:

“I need you to get it through your head that you’re mine now. You exist--” and Gerard could feel hot breath in his ear, a surprisingly soft hand grabbing his jaw in gesture that was anything but soft, “--to serve <i>me</i>.” It was such a simple, almost cliched sentiment that Gerard all but scoffed at the thought. Hell, maybe he just wasn’t cut out for this--

Ow, fuck. Another slap across the face, sudden and unexpected. <i>Fuck.</i>

“You think I’m kidding?” Gerard remained silent, unsure whether or not he was supposed to speak. “Answer me,” Adam commanded, clearing up the confusion.

“N – no.” The life was slowly seeping back into his monotone voice, spurred on by the drugs coursing through his system. <i>Shit</i>, he thought absently. Coming down was going to suck.

“Good, because I’m not.” Adam seemed to calm down, then, running his hands down Gerard’s torso, slow and teasing. That was honestly worse, because it plagued Gerard with a sort of sick anticipation, waiting for Adam to get rough again.

Then there was something warm and wet against the head of his cock, the absolute last sensation he was expecting, and Gerard shuddered.

“Good?” Adam asked, voice low and feral. “Now don’t come until I tell you to. Move and I’ll stop.” And then the suction was back for just a split second, almost too intense, before Adam took him all the way in. Seriously <i>all the way in</i>, to the point where Gerard was beginning to doubt his own sanity, because was that even possible? And he moved, bucked up into Adam’s mouth, because how could he not?

Adam pulled away and grabbed him in one hand, far too tight to be comfortable. Gerard choked a little. “I told you not to move,” Adam hissed, twisting his grip just enough to hurt, nowhere near enough to keep Gerard still. “One more chance.” And before he even registered what was happening, Gerard was once again entirely engulfed in that wet heat.

Everything was so surreally clear, save his vision: Adam’s tiny exhalations through his nose, tickling the skin of Gerard’s naval; the obscene, wet sounds pervading the empty kitchen. Yes, Gerard was indeed tied up in the kitchen, which was maybe a little weird, but he didn’t blame Adam: everybody has to make due with what they’re given, and Adam was given a tiny apartment and a very cooperative gag reflex. And it was really fucking hard to keep still when he was taking full advantage of it: Gerard wanted nothing more than to somehow free his hands, grab Adam’s hair and fuck his mouth until he couldn’t speak, and it took all of his self-restraint not to so much as wiggle his hips in an effort for more friction. Then Adam swallowed around him, and any pretense of self-restraint went out the window.

“F -- fuck,” Gerard panted, but Adam was already off him and out of the vicinity, instead reaching for the counter behind them in search of God knows what.

“That was pretty bad,” Adam agreed. “Less than a minute.”

“You were counting?” Gerard choked out, trying desperately to even out his breathing. That was probably not the best move he could have made, the back-talk, (and maybe the breathing) because Adam’s hand was around his dick again, fucking squeezing, holy shit, that was the last thing anybody should do to anybody else’s dick ever, but Gerard was still hard against all odds. And -- not implying causation necessarily, though that’s where the signs pointed -- Adam let go and slipped something over the head, small and most certainly rubber. Gerard had a bad feeling that he knew what it was.

He groaned, but Adam shushed him with three fingers in his mouth. Seriously, he just shoved them in there without a second thought, perfectly-manicured nails biting into Gerard’s palette to keep him quiet while Adam rambled on about -- the subject at hand, apparently, pun one hundred percent intended. “Don’t speak without permission. Hopefully you can handle that, since you obviously couldn’t hold back on your own.” Gerard whimpered around Adam’s fingers, but that only served to incite him, Adam began thrusting them slowly in and out of his mouth, still crooked up to catch behind his teeth. “This little toy should help with that, though.” Fuck, Gerard was drooling with the effort of staying open, couldn’t really swallow with Adam’s fingers so far back in his throat. It was simultaneously disgusting and incredibly arousing -- he was suddenly reminded of that night a week or so ago, Mikey holding their bodies together and keeping Gerard perfectly still. It was still crystal in Gerard’s mind, the way Mikey had just stopped halfway through kissing him and expected Gerard to follow suit, just sort of mouthing against his lips, oblivious to (unconcerned with) the spit dripping down their chins. It was messy and depraved and fucking disgusting, but that wasn’t so bad, because maybe Gerard was okay with disgusting.

Adam noticed, of course. “Like that, huh?” He hummed, personification of every porn dialogue cliche ever. “Fuck, Gerard, such a slut. Can’t go five minutes without putting something in your mouth.” Which wasn’t exactly true, considering Gerard had very little say as to what Adam stuck in his mouth, but he got the idea. “Wish it was my cock, don’t you?” And as an afterthought: “Answer that.”

He withdrew just long enough for Gerard to choke out a resounding “fuck yes” and then shoved them back in, deeper, really teasing his gag reflex here. Fuck, Gerard hoped Adam realized that his incredible deepthroating skills weren’t standard issue.

“Sorry, not today,” Adam continued, and Gerard could practically hear the smirk in his voice. With a final twist, he withdrew his fingers and Gerard moaned at the loss of contact, partially because he knew it was what Adam wanted and partially because he was beginning to like the sensation. And then they weren’t touching at all, which left him feeling just a bit vulnerable.

“Shh, calm down,” Adam said again, suddenly compassionate. “Here, this should help,” and he knelt again. For a second, Gerard expected another half-blowjob, but then he reached behind the chair and fiddled around with Gerard's restraints, and with a metallic click, Gerard's hands were free.

Adam smiled -- Gerard could hear it in his voice – and said, “Better?”

Gerard nodded.

“I though so,” he purred. “And now you can touch yourself all you like. Just don't take the ring off. You're not going to come until I tell you to.” Gerard fidgeted, wrung out his hands and then just let them dangle at his sides.

Adam didn't seem to like this.

“You ungrateful little slut, I _told_ you to touch yourself. Don't you _appreciate_ my gift?”

“N-no, I mean, I do--” Gerard stuttered, but Adam cut him off with another slap to the face. Fuck, why did that turn him on so much?

“Did I tell you to speak?” Gerard shook his head mutely. He couldn't see Adam but could feel him reaching over his chair again, and Gerard really regretted not attempting a quick inventory of the counter before he let Adam tie him up. He could hear things clinking around back there, smell rubber and disinfectant, and Gerard was not sure how he felt about any of that. “I didn't want to do this,” Adam said, closer to his ear now, “but it looks like I have to. Open up,” he smirked, and Gerard opened his mouth, more out of desire to protest than anything else, but said protest was cut short: _that_ was the source of the rubber smell. It was large – really fucking big, pressing against the back of his teeth, stretching his mouth far wider that was comfortable – and strapped around the back of his head. Buckled. _Locked._ Gerard clenched his fists, because suddenly his heart was racing; he was struggling to breath through the gag, not getting quite enough oxygen and he had a feeling that his vision would be blurring if he could actually see through the blindfold. He didn't bother holding back tears, because Adam couldn't see them anyway.

“If you can't say your safeword, squeeze my arm twice,” he said tersely, and then Adam was back in control. A hand caressed his cheek, warm, feather-light touches, and Adam was breathing against his ear. “Go on, touch yourself. I know you want to.” And Gerard _did_ want to, he realized, literally could not stop himself even though he knew it wouldn’t help. Without consciously registering the movement, he slid his hand between their bodies and wrapped it around his cock, slick and perfect and he was so fucking close but couldn't come. Gerard whined pitifully.

“Can’t come?” Adam asked in mock sympathy. “It’s okay. Some guy’s can’t, with a cockring. Guess you’re just unlucky.” Then he stepped back again, grabbed something else. “Deep breath. Do you know what this is?”

Within seconds, Gerard found out exactly what it was. There was a sudden, sharp pain on his left shoulder, and then another, and another. Dripping down, scalding hot, halfway down his chest. Gerard squeaked around the gag, and then there was more, down to his abdomen, his inner thighs and the yelp turned into more of a groan. He stroked himself faster, there on the edge, but couldn't fucking come.

Adam knelt again – he seemed comfortable on his knees – and began laving his tongue over the cooling wax, slowly making his way to Gerard's balls, which he sucked into his mouth individually. Fuck, that almost hurt, because he was fucking aching with need, squeezing his dick with one hand and barely moving, anything to relieve the horrible pressure.

“Mmm,” Adam hummed, letting him go with an obscene pop. “Want it bad, don't you Gee?”

Gerard groaned. Adam laughed. “Fucking whore. Want me to take the gag out, so you can beg me to let you come?” And again, he moaned around the rubber in his mouth but Adam didn't touch it, instead raking his nails up Gerard's chest and chipping off the wax there, rubbing the over-sensitive skin in its wake. He sucked a nipple into his mouth and bit down, hard, and Gerard came. Sort of. His body _tried_ to come; his dick pulsed in his hand and it felt good for a split second – then nothing happened. No real release, and his balls just ached more. He was harder, if that was even possible.

There was a short, sharp laugh. “Wow,” said Adam. “Impressive. I’ve never seen that before.”

Gerard mumbled something confused and unintelible, but Adam ignored him.

“Now let's try for another one. More tricks up my sleeve.”

~

Seven. Gerard almost came seven times.

Now that he’d been hit with the real one, which was so ridiculously intense that his thighs were still trembling five minutes later, he was completely exhausted.

He sat still while Adam cleaned him up and fed him painkillers, and by the time they were in Adam's hilariously compact sedan, he was feeling pretty good about things. Not just post-coital good, either, though that was admittedly a pretty big part of it, but happy, energized. It had to be the drugs. Had to be, because he refused to believe that Adam's crazy sexual healing plan was in any way legitimate. Either way, he slept in the car purely out of convention and woke up refreshed and ache-free, trying not to think about the pills Adam had given him or the bottle in his pocket, wrapped tightly in a carefully handwritten dosage schedule, tapering off over the course of three weeks. And that was okay: Adam and Bob both said that it would help, that it would be easy if he could just stop gradually, and, perhaps unreasonably, Gerard believed them.

He insisted that he didn't need to be walked to the door, and Adam obliged, not without protest. This proved largely to be a bad idea. The door was locked, and nobody answered his knock. They were in there, too; Gerard could tell by the amplified hum drifting thorough gaps in the insulation. They were playing together. Gerard sighed and made his way around back, hoping that the door he'd spotted in Bob's kitchen actually led to the outside of the building.

The back entrance was very similar to the front in that it consisted of a short stairway leading into the ground and a multitude of cigarette butts. It was also similar in that it was locked. Gerard couldn't bring himself to be pissed off, not in his elevated state of mind, so he just sat down where he was and waited for the music to stop. There was a flaw in this plan, as with most of Gerard's plans: he wasn't even sure if the back door lead to Bob's apartment at all, but this was mitigated less than a minute later because apparently, Gerard was temporarily the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.

The music stopped; the door swung open on solid metal hinges, and Frank emerged, lighter in hand.

"Fuck," he laughed in happy disbelief. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"Just a couple of minutes," Gerard admitted, doing this smooth little wall-slide-thing to push himself into a standing position. The pills clacked together conspicuously in his pocket, more of a good luck charm than a reminder of his alleged wrongdoings.

Frank nodded and pulled one of Bob's Reds out of his pocket. "Ah, sorry. We were jamming." And his hands shook just a little as he lit up, cupping one hand against the wind, but Gerard suspected that it was more post-practice jitters than desperation for a smoke. Not that he wasn't desperate.

"Shit, I've been jonesing for one since I met you," Frank sighed on the exhale, and then broke immediately into a minor coughing fit. He held up a finger, _gimme a second_ , and took another puff when the choking subsided. That one was better. Frank muttered something about first times, which made very little sense considering Gerard knew for a fact that it wasn't his first time.

"You're going to kill yourself," said Gerard, mainly out of a false sense of obligation.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Dude, you just spent like four hours hanging out with a drug dealer. Don't tease me about my vices." There was silence during which Gerard neither agreed nor disagreed. "What were you doing, anyway?" Frank asked after a moment.

"Um." He hesitated.

But then he stopped fucking hesitating, because fuck that: Gerard had gone through a lot of shit (not necessarily bad shit, but shit just the same) for this placebo confidence boost, and by God he was taking advantage of it.

So didn't answer, but snatched Frank's cigarette out of his hand with two fingers, much to Frank's protest, and took a long drag, held it in like he was smoking a joint. Gerard grabbed him by the hair, rough because he knew he could be, and pulled him forward for a deep kiss; he parted Frank's unresponsive lips with his own and exhaled into his mouth. When he pulled back, Frank was still for a moment before he remembered to breath out, and there was still a ribbon of smoke trailing from his lips. Gerard considered Operation Impromptu Shotgun a success.

Frank finally regained his composure enough to snatch the cigarette back from Gerard, now little more than a stub. "Damn," he breathed. Seeing the look in his eyes, that pure bewilderment, Gerard almost apologized, but then caught himself. He was fucking done apologizing.

“At Adam’s house,” he started. Gerard was getting this shit out in the open, no matter the consequences, because he was fucking done keeping secrets and he was fucking done _denying_ Frank when he fucking _asked_ for it. “He gave me drugs, yeah, but then I told him about Mikey and about you.”

Somehow, Frank managed to look more bewildered, mouth falling open just a bit too wide on his final exhale, like _why the hell would you do that?_

He answered unprompted. “I wasn’t all there in the head, but that isn’t the point. He gave me this little talk and I spilled my guts, and then, well. He fucked me.” And Gerard couldn’t stop now lest he lose the motivation to continue. “More than that. He. Like, I don’t wanna to say he hurt me, but I guess he sort of did. I don’t fucking know; he said it would help to understand both sides of the relationship you -- you want. If you still want it.” Maybe that was too much. “I just felt like I should tell you,” he finished lamely.

Decisively, Frank flicked his smoke to the ground and ground it out with his bare heel -- was the kid insane? And he turned to Gerard completely unreadable. Man, he had really fucked this up, hadn’t he? Without warning, Frank bridged the distance between them and kissed Gerard, soft yet assertive, reminiscent of their first time.

They broke apart for just a moment, and it looked like Frank might say something, but then he grabbed Gerard's hair again with renewed fervor and pulled them together. He could feel Frank smiling against his lips, and that might just have been the best feeling on the whole planet. And then Frank opened wide, practically begging for Gerard to shove his tongue in his mouth, so of course Gerard did. More than that, he flipped them around and slammed Frank into the wall behind them, grabbed the backs of his thighs and hoisted him up, pinning him there with his weight.

"Shit," Frank moaned, breaking the kiss to throw his arms around Gerard's shoulders and wrap his legs around his waist. The position made his size even more obvious: Frank was fucking tiny, and Gerard was suddenly fascinated by the idea of maneuvering him around: carrying him to the bed, maybe, throwing him down and ravishing him. And Gerard didn't even feel weird using the word 'ravishing': the situation totally called for it. Totally. There was no room for ravishing at the moment, though, so he settled with adjusting his grip on Frank's thighs and pulling them closer, grinding against Frank and letting Frank grind back, hold on for dear life.

"Frank! How long does it take to smoke a fucking -- oh."

They broke apart abruptly at the sound. Gerard very nearly dropped the squirming Iero in his arms, but managed to catch himself at the last second and lower him almost gently to the ground.

There, in the doorway, was Ray, arms crossed and hair deflated in exasperation.

"How many times do I have to walk in on the two of you before you just ignore me and keep going?" He asked, brushing hair out of his face and somehow still keeping his arms crossed. Ray was a fucking wizard.

"Sorry," Frank said, caught somewhere between amusement and genuine remorse. Amusement was winning. Gerard wasn't really sorry, so he changed the subject:

"Adam gave me pills," he offered.

Ray bit the inside of his cheek. "Fucking awesome. Now are you guys going to come jam with us or should I get the old lady upstairs to be our new guitarist?"

"That's an old lady?" Frank asked incredulously, dismounting. "She sounds like a freight train!"

"Yeah, well, we sound like a rock band." And then Ray furrowed his eyebrows and switched into full-on Mom Mode: "Frank Motherfucking Iero, where are your shoes?"

Gerard just smiled and shut the door behind them. Frank and Ray argued about shoes, tetanus on rusty nails, and said rusty nails laying around Bob's back stoop, the likelyhood of which Frank insisted was negligible and Ray saw as extremely high.

Bob was seated behind his kit, playing something that sounded like a reggae beat, if reggae involved two bass pedals and a drummer who might as well have four arms. He slowed down as soon as Gerard walked through the door, though, and smiled, probably relieved that Gerard was alive. Gerard hoped he had worried at least a little bit.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, standing up to flip on a few amps, fiddle with some knobs in what Gerard assumed was an effort to make everything sound Not Bad.

"Okay," he answered. "Good, actually. Fucking awesome."

Frank laughed, slinging the strap around his neck. "Make up your mind."

"Fucking awesome," Gerard said decisively.

Ray, oblivious to the conversation, struck a few chords and began re-tuning. "Hey," he asked, "are we one of those bands that counts in?"

"Dunno," said Bob. "We can be. I’ll do it.”

“Nah, you do the sticks. Gerard should count!” Frank said.

Gerard was confused. “What?”

“Bob’s gonna tap the sticks, and you just count in four beats. And then sing,” Frank explained.

“Wait, what? What are we singing? I don’t even have a mic.”

“Dig Up Her Bones. Misfits. We practiced it while you were out.” That didn’t address Gerard’s second complaint, but Frank didn’t seem to care. “Bob, go!”

Bob shrugged and readied his sticks.

What the fuck ever.

“One, two, three, four!” Gerard shouted, and then the room was filled with a wall of distorted, vaguely harmonized sound.

He had absolutely no recollection of the following three and a half minutes. Seriously, this was the kind of shit deserving of a Rocky montage, because though Gerard didn’t remember the exact moment he started singing, the moment he stopped was like jumping into a cold pool, all his senses suddenly heightened. He crashed back to earth arguably better off than he’d been when he exited the metaphorical atmosphere. Hell, maybe the literal atmosphere; he honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

Gerard then realized, courtesy of his heightened perception, that everybody was staring at him, or in Frank’s case, grinning at him manically.

“Fuck,” Ray said.

“Yeah,” Bob agreed.

And then everything was really awkward, because Gerard was _not_ good at taking compliments, okay? And he was pretty sure that ‘fuck’ counted as a compliment, at least in this situation. “Um, is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?” Gerard asked, just to be sure.

Frank rolled his eyes. “That’s an ‘I-think-we-just-found-a-singer’ fuck.” And he glanced around to the other guys, looking for confirmation.

“You were going to travel with us anyway,” Ray said. “This works out great. Can you write lyrics?”

“He writes really depressed poetry!” Frank chimed in, attention focused mostly on his (Bob’s?) guitar at this point.

“Hey -- how do you even know that?” Gerard asked indignantly.

“There were a few pages of it in your sketchpad.”

He didn’t argue, though he would have liked to. It was his fault for showing Frank anyway, and he was suddenly nostalgic for good ole’ Last Week, when he still _had_ his sketchpad. And his Walkman. And cash.

“Cool,” Bob said, a roadblock to Gerard’s semi truck of thought. “Then I guess you’re in the band.”

And just like that, Gerard was in the band. He was _in_ the fucking _band_ , and that was so incredibly easy that it seemed unreal, because Gerard had always had this undoubtedly unrealistic concept of what it meant to be in a band: no showers, cold pizza for breakfast, free beer. A sense of camaraderie that had to be nurtured like a wounded bird, that didn’t develop overnight and likewise couldn’t be destroyed in a day. He had known his new band for less than a week, and that seemed just a bit insufficient. Then again, he had already had sex with Frank several times, in beds and hay and truck stop restrooms; Ray had walked in on him having sex with Frank. Fuck, Gerard had (unwittingly) had sex with _Ray_ : either Gerard was a slut or they had already formed the brotherly bonds required for his idealistic band life.

Speaking of brotherly bonds.

“Are we still going back to Belleville?” Gerard blurted out, oblivious to in-progress discussion of some chord progression with which Frank was already experimenting.

Ray looked up from his guitar. “We talked about it while you were gone. Uh, we were going to, but I know you weren’t too crazy about the idea when I first brought it up.”

“No, no. Fuck that,” Gerard said, flapping his hand. “I changed my mind. We can get in the car right now if you want to.” Frank raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious!”

Suddenly, Gerard was hit by the sickening realization that this was the point in the conversation where he was supposed to explain his reasoning, and that presented an impossibility: he couldn’t very well explain anything without either lying or risking ostracization. Sure, Bob didn’t seem to mind his and Frank’s less-than-subtle relationship, and Ray hadn’t so much as complained about the slightly stoned handjob. He hadn’t even brought up the subject, but the awkward tension Gerard had been expecting simply wasn’t there, not like it had been with Frank initially. Frank, though not exactly the most mellow person in their little caravan-cum-rockband, didn’t even mind that Gerard was going back to Belleville with blatant intent to fuck his brother. Hell, from what Gerard had witnessed so far, Frank seemed to get off on it.

The problem was that Frank was the exception to the rule, that he was part of a minority so small it could hardly be said to exist at all. A minority that was okay with incest and seemed to play a disproportionally large role in Gerard’s life. Basically, Gerard had blown his chance to get it out in the open and face the consequences; fifteen minutes ago, he had been fully prepared to bust down the door and announce ‘we have to go back to Belleville! My brother plays bass, and also we need to pick him up to complete our huge gay orgy’ or something to that effect. Then, in the course of thirty seconds, the other three had foisted this enormous weight upon his shoulders, a blessing and a curse: on one hand, he was in a fucking band. On the other, this social revelation, this shift, not in the dynamic of their new-found friendship but in its definition, forced Gerard to completely re-think the consequences of explaining his situation. He could theoretically burn the grass-and-kindling bridges that he shared with Ray and Bob, two guys he’d met on the road, but there was no way he could risk destroying his relationships with Ray and Bob, bandmates. For what seemed like the first time in his life -- though he had a feeling this was a first time only in perception -- Gerard was _going_ somewhere. Somewhere with shared clothes and fast food and maybe, if he was lucky, pyrotechnics.

He was also going to Belleville, New Jersey, and it was _way_ off the beaten path to stardom.

Gerard sat down in the middle of the floor and, simply because it was there, fell over and stuck his head in the open bass drum. Bob didn’t stop his steady footwork -- Gerard was continually amazed by the guy’s complete inability to give a single fuck -- and the quarter note hits pounded through Gerard’s skull, getting inside and rattling around, like an external heartbeat. He should be in a hospital bed somewhere, drinking pureed vegetables and watching this beat on government-funded equipment, drifting in and out of sleep to the steady reassurance that he was alive. Even there, in some landlord’s basement, conscious of a conspicuous lack of IV racks and cryptic nurses, it cleared his head.

In this enlightened state, he realized, quietly and without fanfare, how selfish he was being.

“If you would rather stay here, I can wait to go home,” he said to nobody in-particular, sitting up just enough to see Ray without craning his neck. He could see Frank even with his head crammed in the drum, which was apparently missing a drumhead. The others looked up from their attempted guitar duet, but before Frank could even open his mouth to speak, Gerard thought better of himself and interjected. “Don’t call me a martyr, because I know you’re about to. I get that two hours of practice doesn’t make us a real band, and it would probably make more sense to at least play together for a few months before going on some epic journey to pick up the bassist.”

Frank quirked an eyebrow. “Mikey plays bass?”

“What?” Gerard asked, shifting onto his knees for a better viewpoint. “Of course. I thought that was the whole reason we were going to get him. I could have sworn I told you that.”

“Dude, Gerard,” Ray said. “We’re in Chicago. We could find a bassist in any bar in the city. I don’t know about you guys,” and he glanced meaningfully from Bob to Frank, “but I thought we were doing this because you missed your brother.”

“We’re not going to be any good until our lead singer stops pining,” Frank added.

Gerard huffed indignantly and hoped the others didn’t misinterpret the word ‘pining’, or rather, he hoped the didn’t interpret it correctly. “You were pushing to go before you even knew I could sing.”

“Maybe I just want you to be happy,” said Frank.

“But the band--”

Bob cut him off unexpectedly. “The band will be fine. Plus, isn’t this in the spirit of our whole effort?” He smiled. “Freedom to go wherever we want, when we want?”

Gerard didn’t bother wondering when they’d explained the ‘spirit of the effort’ to Bob or when Bob had officially begun considering himself part of that spirit, but was mildly amazed by his ability to go with the flow.

“My kit should fit in the back of the van,” Bob said.

Ray nodded. “That’s what it was built for.”

“We can pack up the guitars and practice on the road. I’ll get Bert to house-sit. If he’s cool with it, we can leave tomorrow afternoon and be there by Tuesday evening.”

Gerard bit his lip. “That soon?”

“And we’ll be back by Thursday at the latest. I won’t even miss sound-teching Saturday night.”

“That’s his job,” Frank hissed loudly in Gerard’s direction. “He hangs out with bands for a living!” The ‘holy fuck, isn’t that awesome?’ was only implied.

Bob ignored him. “Don’t look so surprised. Just because I have an apartment doesn’t mean I’m not up for some old-fashioned rebellion,” he smiled, shaking shaggy blond hair out of his face. And Gerard considered protesting further -- he really did -- but fuck it: he was sick of feeling like he was taking advantage of people every time someone agreed with him, so he took the offer at face value.

“Okay,” Gerard said. “One thing though: I’m assuming this is long-term. Staying with you.” He glanced questioningly at Bob, who nodded.

“Even if we suck. I like you guys. And you know I’d give you fair warning before kicking you out.”

Right. “I can pick up all my shit when we go home, but what about Frank?”

All eyes on him, Frank scrunched up his face. “I didn’t really think of that. And I need to say goodbye to my mom if I’m leaving long-term.”

There was silence, everybody thinking the same thing but no one saying it.

Ray sighed and caved, because Ray was a fucking saint. “I don’t want to delay anything, but Dogwood is only three hours out of the way.” Only three hours in comparison to the thirteen it would take to get back to Belleville in the first place. Everyone’s matching grimaces were ample evidence that the idea of a thirty-two hour round-trip was rather unappealing.

“You have a little bit of money left, right?” Bob said finally, looking to Ray. “We can split gas.”

“I don’t wanna burden you guys--” Frank said, and Gerard couldn’t help but smile at the fact that he was feeling guilty for once.

Bob furrowed his eyebrows and pointed an accusing finger at Frank. “You. Shut the fuck up.”

Frank shut the fuck up.

“Okay. If everyone’s done feeling sorry for themselves, do you want to work on that thing Frank was writing?”

Frank’s sigh indicated that he wasn’t quite done feeling sorry for himself, but they started working on that thing Ray was writing anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

Gerard was already in bed when Frank came back, looking pretty goddamn pampered: fluffy white towel wrapped around his head, steaming cup of coffee on the beside table. Where the hell had he gotten coffee? And he was reading what Frank realized was, upon closer inspection, one of Mrs. Iero's trashy romance novels. All he needed were fuzzy socks and a few of those chocolates that fancy hotels put on your pillow, and he'd be set.

"Hey," Frank said, because you really needed to announce your presence upon entering the downstairs suite lest your footsteps get lost in the horrible shag.

Guiltily, Gerard dropped the book and scrambled to shove it in the side-table drawer. “Uh, it was just sort of there,” he explained lamely, stumbling over his words. “Whatever, I only read the sex scenes.”

Frank executed a flying roll onto the bed, landing mostly on Gerard’s feet. He was really past the point of feeling embarrassed at his dorkiness around Gerardl. “Why do you keep doing that?” He asked.

Gerard looked puzzled. “Doing what?”

“Saying ‘whatever’ all the time. That’s my thing. You can’t have that.”

He cocked his head like a confused puppy, towel falling into his eyes. “I didn’t even notice I was doing it.”

“You hang out with me too much,” Frank joked, tucking the corner of the towel back into the rest of the beehive. But Gerard looked mildly disheartened, like maybe the droopy towel represented his soul or something.

Fuck, maybe they really were spending too much time together, if Frank was getting all depressed-poet about a towel. Drunk depressed poet. Anyway. Point was, he looked sad all of the sudden.

Gerard unwrapped the towel all together and tossed it on the bed, loosing a mess of damp black hair. “I don’t have to once we pick up Mikey.”

The statement, so off-handed, sunk into Frank's mind like diamond through semi-molten lead, slow and painful, and when the concept settled and lodged itself firmly in place, there was no getting it out again. Not without getting lead poisoning, anyway.

Frank sat down on the foot of the bed and tried to keep his dinner down.

"You. You -- what?"

The cogs in Gerard's head were spinning visibly behind his eyes. "Hang on," he said, rolling out from under the comforter. "That's not what I meant--"

"Then what the fuck did you mean?"

"Nothing! Nothing! I wasn't thinking," he said.

Frank huffed. "No, I get it. You'd rather hang out with your brother than me."

"That not what I meant--"

"It's okay; I don't mind being the fucking substitute in your crazy incest fantasies. You can just fucking use me and forget about me when you've got access to the real thing," he spat. Nevermind that Frank had flat out asked to be used, asked for Gerard to man up and indulge him. This was different.

"Frank." Gerard scooted up beside him at the foot of the bed and tried to wrap an arm around him, but Frank dodged. "Frankie," he pleaded. "That's not what this is about, I swear. Like, maybe at first--"

"Oh, you were only using me at first--"

"But it's not like that anymore! I swear, Frank. I didn't mean it!" He paused and furrowed his eyebrows. "I--" and Frank saw it coming from a mile away, or thought he did, and tensed up in anticipation. He wasn't sure if he could handle this, not now, but -- "I care about you," Gerard finished, and it was simultaneously a relief and a huge let-down.

Frank just gave up. He slumped backward on the bed, letting his legs dangle.

“Sure,” he said. Gerard didn’t push the issue further, at least not verbally: instead, he joined Frank on the bed and rested a tentative hand on his shoulder, silently asking is this okay? Frank sighed. It was okay, he guessed, though he should probably know better than to solve his sex problems with more sex. At least, Frank assumed that’s where this was headed, and he was okay with that, in spite of his better judgement. So he let Gerard know by reciprocating the shoulder thing, and then decided not to be a pussy and just grabbed him around the waist and rolled underneath him.

Gerard was maybe a bit taken-aback, judging by the second it took for him to get the idea, brace his weight on his elbows rather than on Frank. Quietly, tentatively he pressed his lips to Frank’s. It was nothing like their kiss on Bob’s back stoop, hard and passionate, and it wasn’t like their first, so spontaneous that there was no time for hesitation. No, this was about testing the water, carefully planned, each of them thinking about their next move in advance. And fuck, Frank hadn’t even opened his mouth by the time it was over.

The only sounds in the room were those of Frank’s laboured breathing -- he could never fucking breathe when he was nervous -- and Gerard’s zipper clicking against Frank’s totally sweet button fly with every slight twitch of his hips.

“I don’t--” Gerard stuttered, and then rolled his eyes and regained his composure. Frank almost laughed, because he totally saw where Gerard was coming from with this whole I’m a fucking socially awkward loser and really fed up with it thing. “I’m not gonna just give up on you when he’s back in the picture.”

“Give up on me,” Frank repeated in a quiet monotone. Like he was some kind of cause that required effort and maintenance.

“No,” Gerard said, scooting further up the bed and encouraging Frank to do the same. “I’m just saying that he’s -- you’r e-- just, both of you. We can make this work. I swear we can make this work.”

“What, the three of us? Because I don’t think that works for anybody.”

Gerard made some sort of exasperated noise, like a cross between a sigh and a whine, and bit his lip. He looked Frank in the eye, determined. “We’ll fucking make it work.”

“Why?” And Frank was suddenly pissed off, completely inexplicable and unjustifiable anger. Gerard was just being so goddamn naive, so fucking obstinate in his idealism, and it wasn’t fair. “You think we’re special? We can dodge anything life throws at us, is that it?”

The look in Gerard’s eyes was a distinct ‘maybe’.

Frank huffed. “Fuck, that’s totally it, isn’t it? It doesn’t work for anyone else, but we’ll be totally fine. Why, Gerard? Because we’re in love?”

Shit.

It just slipped out, really. He hadn’t meant to say that -- okay, maybe he’d been wondering for a while, deep down, but he hadn’t meant to put it out in the fucking open like that, an easy target, just waiting to get shot down.

But Gerard didn’t shoot him down, at least not right away. Instead, he cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows, like he was either thinking or about to cry. Maybe both. And Frank might just die from the suspense.

At last, Gerard spoke:

“I don’t know. I think -- maybe. Like, define love.”

“Goddamn it, what does that even mean?” Frank all but groaned. Leave it to Gerard to complicate such a simple fucking question.

“I don’t know,” he said again, practically begging at this point.

“Jesus Christ. Just tell me, is it more than sex?” Frank felt like something straight out of one of those poorly-lit dramas aimed at middle-aged women, because shit that was cliched, but he really wanted to know. Really fucking wanted to know, especially since they were in the mood for confession.

Gerard bit his lip. They were going to have matching splits at this rate. “Yeah,” he said. And then, as an afterthought, “But it’s more than sex with Mikey, too.”

“Well you’re supposed to love him. It’s like a biological imperative or something.”

He raised an eyebrow in Frank’s direction, like I don’t think you understand what ‘biological imperative’ means, but he let it slide. “I’m not supposed to love him like that,” he said instead.

And Frank was fucking sick of that goddamn attitude, and he didn't care if he sounded like his mom: Gerard needed to shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for himself.

“Stop doing that,” Frank said, squirming out from under Gerard. Just a little.

“Doing what?” Gerard asked, and he looked genuinely confused.

“This 'I'm a horrible person because I wanna bone my brother' act. I mean--” Frank sighed. “You have two options here: go, like, become a monk or something, or fucking go to Belleville and just bone him! Don't fucking whine about it and expect to accomplish anything!” And maybe those weren't the only two options, but they covered the bases.

Gerard glanced downward, as close to looking at his own feet as was possible when he was still on top of Frank, and was that... guilt? Frank hoped not, though he didn't know what other reaction he was hoping to elicit, because he didn't want to make Gerard feel bad about it. He just wanted – Frank didn't know what he wanted. He was just frustrated, okay, and maybe a little hurt, and it wasn't that he had a problem with Gerard's and Mikey's relationship – he supported it as much as the situation allowed. He just hated how unhappy the whole thing made Gerard, and when Gerard was unhappy, Frank was unhappy. What was the point of even doing something if it was just going to make your life miserable?

“I'm sor--” Gerard started, but then caught himself. “I mean, I know I complain a lot. And it just pisses everybody off. I get that, and I'm working on it, I swear. But that's not what this is about, is it?”

Frank looked up at him dolefully.

“You're worried that I'll ignore you once we pick up Mikey. And I see – Frank, look at me. I see where you're coming from, because that's fucking legitimate, okay?”

“It's stupid.”

“I don't think your concerns are stupid. There's nothing you could say to me right now that I'd consider stupid. You have every fucking right to be worried about this, okay? Because I know we've been moving pretty fast, and I know Mikey's a lot to compete with because we're already close, but you've gotta understand that it's not a competition. It'll never be a fucking competition. You're not a stand-in for my brother, I promise. No -- fuck, Frankie, don't fucking cry.”

But Frank couldn't help it: hot, angry tears were welling up in his eyes, streaking down his face and leaving wet little jet-trails in their wake. Not angry at Gerard, either, or Mikey: he was just pissed at himself. Not for any real reason: he just felt shitty. And he was whining about it, because he was a goddamn hypocrite, and this was fucking pathetic.

“I'm sorry,” Frank choked out, not really sure what he was apologizing for. He couldn't see Gerard's face through the tears, but he felt a comforting hand on his jaw, a sweet, closed-mouth kiss upon his lips.

“Shh, Frankie, don't be sorry. Please, don't fucking apologize to me; you didn't do anything wrong!”

Frank only cried harder. Goddamn it, he didn't fucking want to be bawling his eyes out, but at the same time, there was a little pang of satisfaction somewhere inside him: Gerard was getting a taste of his own medicine, at least. Frank knew it wasn't his fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was just – it sucked. Whatever it was.

“Frank, just, fucking – Frankie--” Gerard fumbled around, completely lost. “Jesus, what am I supposed to--” and Frank flung his arms around Gerard's shoulders and tried, ineffectively, to calm down. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Gerard started crying too. “Fuck, Frankie. Would -- would you forgive me if I told you that I love you?”

That stopped him dead in his tracks, so to speak. For a moment, Frank couldn't breath. Flat out couldn't force his lungs to function, and goddammit, this was the worst confession ever. When he finally regained the ability to exhale, it came out as more of a coughing fit than anything, and then Frank was just crying harder. Fucking sobbing into Gerard's shoulder, curling up as much as possible in his position. Shaking uncontrollably.

“You fucking asshole,” he choked out between sobs. “Jesus Christ, Gerard, you stupid motherfucking self-serving douchebag; I fucking love you too.” And before he realized what was happening, Gerard's tongue was in his mouth and his hands were pinned to the bed and he was being kissed so hard that he forgot to cry. And fuck, he'd be lucky if his lip didn't open up again, but he was too overwhelmed to care. A helicopter could come crashing through the window; the whole fucking planet could hurdle into the sun and Frank wouldn't stop kissing Gerard.

Right when he thought it was going to end -- when most kisses ended naturally, with Frank’s mouth going slack and their noses bumping together every few seconds -- Gerard renewed his assault, scraping his teeth against Frank’s still-bruised lip and sucking gently. He squirmed a little at this, not really trying to get away but succeeding in freeing his wrists to fist one hand in Gerard’s hair, pull him down until he fell and knocked the breath out of Frank with a soft ‘oof’. Worth it, though, for the feel of Gerard’s body pressed up against his. They broke apart only when Frank could no longer breath -- for real, this time -- and was starting to get lightheaded.

Frank coughed, sniffled, and was generally unsexy until he cleared his lungs, but Gerard didn’t seem to mind: he just smiled softly and pinched Frank’s nose, which made very little sense until he wiped it on his jeans. And eew, that was the most fucking heartwarmingly disgusting thing ever. And then they were making out again, which was fucking awesome for several reasons, the most prominent of which being that Frank had just wiped his snot on Gerard’s hand, and Gerard still wanted to make out. Frank’s life. His motherfucking life.

Maybe he was being a little touchy, a little up-and-down, what with the crying and the irrational anger and now -- what, a suddenly insatiable sex drive? But that was the beauty of being Frank Iero: nobody expected too much from you at any given moment, be it in the form of productivity or simple logical consistency. Frank didn’t have to be consistent. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

At that particular moment, he knew exactly what he wanted. Frank pulled away and looked Gerard square in the eye, completely ignoring the pitiful, betrayed little noise he made in response. “Gerard,” he said. “I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

Gerard's eybrows shot straight up. “Um. Oh? Okay? Like, right now?”

“Right now,” Frank confirmed, already arching backward to fumble around in the bedside table drawer, knocking that book -- probably called something like Blushing Protagonist and the Temple of Hunk, judging by the cover – onto the floor in the process. Before his resolve had time to waver, Frank found what he was looking for: a small bottle of lotion: the kind you stole from hotel bathrooms, that usually did very little to soften your skin but were ideal for stealthy concealment and, uh, jerking off. Because Frank was just not a spit-on-your-hand kind of guy, and no way in hell he did it dry. That time with Conor had been the exception only because he was too turned on to remember his well-thought-out, spit-related objections. And sure, Frank was in a band and therefore allegedly obligated to eat poorly, neglect his personal hygiene, and wear the same clothes for weeks on end, but he drew the line at fucking and/or jerking off dry. That was just stupid.

“Gee, back pocket of my pants. No, the other pants. On the floor.” He sat up as Gerard scrambled off, thankful for his lack of protest. He knew that Gerard liked sex as much as the next guy, but wouldn't put it past him to spend a few more minutes debating, talking things out just for the sake of talking. Gerard liked to talk, and Frank got that, but personally, he was more of an action man. A go-getter, as his mom put it, though he was pretty sure she had never used the phrase to refer to spontaneous post-fight sex. Frank was pretty sure there was a name for that. Rage sex? He was going to call it rage sex.

Gerard returned with a handful of condoms -- because they totally needed a handful. You know, in case the first four didn’t work -- and his grimace indicated that he was so confused by/disdainful toward said protection that Frank momentarily doubted the sanity of boning Gerard in the first place.

“Um,” he said, watching Gerard drop them unceremoniously on the bed from a few feet up, like they might bite. “You do use these every time, right?” And he felt pretty shitty for asking, especially since he probably already had any weird diseases Gerard was going to give him, but it was the principal of the matter. Long story short, Frank was not about to let Gerard stick that thing in him without a rubber and enough lube to drown a small horse.

“Most of the time,” Gerard said, frowning. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Frank answered. He wasn’t going to make this a thing or anything. “Just, I mean. We probably should have been using them the whole time.” And he felt momentarily guilty for only considering this now.

Gerard shrugged and dropped the issue, started divesting himself of his shirt without prompting. Thank God for that, too, because Frank was pretty sure there was literally no conversation more likely to kill the mood (and there was totally a mood going on, okay? The crying was part of the mood. For sure.) or more imperative to the act itself than this, barring something involving either death or confused gender. And fuck, Frank was killing the mood in his own head, fucking bludgeoning it to death with a rusty tire iron. Was that even possible? Frank thought so.

Luckily, Gerard saved him with his sudden state of pantslessness. Fuck. Frank could joke about his alleged body issues as much as he wanted; there was no denying that this man was fine.

He hastened to remove his shirt too, even though it felt as if he’d just put it on, and Frank honestly felt kind of scrawny in comparison. Sure, Gerard was pale as fuck and probably lived in his mom’s basement, but at least he didn’t have chicken legs. Frank should get, like, giant black snake tattoos coiled around his legs. That would be badass. Or, like, a fucking dragon. But not the shitty kind of dragon that everybody else got on their backs, fighting a lion or whatever, but a huge, full-body guy with its head on Frank’s shoulder and its tail coiled around his legs. And it would be to scale, so it’d look like he had a cool little dragon buddy with him all the time. Could he do that? Would Gerard still fuck him if there was some crazy dragon staring at him the whole time? He resisted the urge to ask this aloud only because Gerard finished his totally sweet button-fly at that exact moment and made quick work of Frank’s jeans.

“Fuck, okay,” Gerard mumbled, ripping the condom open with his teeth and somehow shoving Frank back down to the bed with a forearm at the same time. Gerard was a fucking miracle. “How d’you think it’ll be easiest?” He asked.

“I don't know,” Frank groaned, because Gerard's knee was between his thighs and he was having a really hard time actually thinking rather than grinding mindlessly against it. And Gerard wasn't fucking doing anything except waiting for a reply. “Shit. I don't fucking, care. Just, like. On my back? Whatever, I wanna look at you.”

The little bedside lamp was still on, casting them in that warm orangeish glow that made everything look like a movie set, smoothed blemishes and cast deep blue shadows. Frank was pretty sure that first times were all supposed to be lit like this, which meant that everything would be pretty much perfect if they were actual movie stars, or at least had their conversations pre-scripted to avoid awkwardness.

Gerard nodded and shifted the both of them upward, just a bit, and Frank grabbed a freshly-washed pillow (everything smelled like fucking lavender detergent, so he could tell) to jam under his head. Much better. And before he had time to further over-analyze the situation, their briefs were off and fuck, that was familiar, the friction of Gerard's skin against Frank's, like they were crafted to fit together in some divine ritual. Which was funny, because they totally weren't, like two fourth inch cables and no amp to stick them in. And Frank was coming up with more stupid analogies, wasn’t he? Goddamn, he realized, he was fucking nervous.

“Do we need to talk about this?” Gerard asked.

Frank rolled his eyes with what he hoped was conviction. “Fucking no; dude, we’ve been talking about it for like twenty minutes already.”

“Like five.”

“Whatever, just -- aah--” and how were they supposed to hold a conversation anyway, with Gerard twitching against him like that? Fucking twitching, like he physically could not control himself, and fuck that was hot. “Fuck, that’s hot,” Frank said.

“What?”

“Your -- just -- nevermind. You.”

“Me?”

“You,” Frank confirmed. “Now seriously, how are we supposed to do this?”

Gerard half-shrugged, looking pretty damn confused for someone who allegedly had more sex than Frank. Not that having more sex than Frank was an incredibly difficult feat to accomplish, but still. “Don’t you want me to like, blow you first?”

“Fuck no, Gee, I cannot fucking handle that,” he gritted out. “Just, do whatever it is you do.”

More lip-biting, a nervous habit that Frank was pretty sure had not existed ten minutes ago. “Okay. You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Fuck yes.”

“And no freaky shit?”

Frank smiled despite himself. “No freaky shit. Maybe later.”

“Okay then,” said Gerard.

“Okay then,” said Frank.

There was a long, long pause during which time seemed to slow down, and Frank thought he could hear his individual nerve endings firing. And seriously, they were all firing, like, at once. Hook him up to some electrodes and like, science shit, and Frank could power the whole country through the sheer force of his gut-wrenching anticipation.

Gerard sighed, hair falling in his face in a post-shower mess. “Fuck,” he said, like a fourth-grader in a last-clap contest, and reached for the lotion.

And then everything was fine again: Frank’s lungs and Gerard’s slick fingers there, working it into the sensitive ring of muscle. Frank was already panting, trying to store up oxygen for later, because holy shit, that was crazy. The sensation, and Gerard’s hands: baby-soft and paler than the rest of him, if that was even possible, like maybe he kept them in a glass case when not in use. And his fingers were kind of fucking adorable, stubby with blunt little nails. Frank thought he might be falling in love with Gerard’s body parts individually. And then one of them was pressing inside him, which was just. Fuck. Completely foreign, a feeling that Frank hadn’t even imagined until now. Not pain, exactly, though the way his stomach flipped almost made it feel that way. He just felt exposed, mostly, and almost too turned on to speak.

“Fuck, Gee.”

Not that he had anything of importance to say.

Taking that as confirmation, Gerard was quick to add another, which only intensified the weird sort of burning that spread throughout his whole body, shivering and far too warm. He could feel Gerard’s intent gaze, though he couldn’t see him with his eyes closed -- when had that happened? -- and he knew that Gerard was watching for any sign of discomfort, because that was just how he rolled. The guy could scar Frank’s lip to prove a point, but God forbid he rush the preparation. So for his sake, Frank tried to take deep breaths, kept his expression neutral as Gerard twisted, scissored his fingers. It got easier, he found. Not the neutrality -- that got way harder -- but relaxing, because just as the burning reached the edge of pain, it subsided into something infinitely more pleasant. Gerard crooked his fingers, and holy fucking shit, there were not enough expletives in the world to describe how awesome that was.

It took maybe thirty seconds, less of a ‘sweet spot’ and more of a buildup, for everything to get too intense. Good intense, mind you, just so completely overwhelming that Frank could barely think, didn’t even want to try speaking. Every attempt at communication came out as some sort of breathy noise -- he sounded like a goddamn porn star or something, but fuck if he could help it -- and without noticing, without even thinking about it, he began rocking back to meet Gerard’s fingers. The best part was his thumb, crooked slightly and stroking the skin just under Frank’s balls. Holy shit that felt good, and what had even possessed him to do that? Like, seriously, why would Gerard even think of that in the first place and why did Frank like it so fucking much? Oh, right, because it was awesome.

“Fuckin’ th’hell what?” Frank said (gurgled, probably, but he couldn’t make himself give a fuck.)

Gerard seemed to get the gist of it, at least. “Ready?” he asked, already slowing his pace in preparation to withdraw. Frank nodded.

“‘Kay.”

It never occurred to Frank that in order for Gerard to fuck him, he had to remove his fingers first. Which sucked. It really did, because he felt so empty suddenly, but at the same time, there was that fluttery anticipation again. He stole a glance downward. Fuck, that was a lot bigger than two fingers.

“R’lax, Frankie,” Gerard slurred, splaying his unused hand on Frank’s chest for support, using the other one to generously apply more lube and line himself up. “Okay. Deep breath.”

For a split second, it didn’t hurt. During the seconds following that, it really fucking did.

Frank groaned, long and loud, because he just couldn’t help it: he’d been right; Gerard’s dick was not something to be trifled with. And holy fuck, he was only in up to the head and it was ripping Frank in half, his entire body wracked with something far too intense to be called pleasure. He was probably crying again. Goddammit.

“Shh, Frankie, you’re okay,” Gerard crooned inches from his ear. “D’you wanna stop?” Frank shook his head violently. Just a little more and it would work. This was supposed to feel awesome, and he’d gotten a little taste of that with Gerard’s fingers. He’d be okay. He’d be fine.

The pain was over almost before it started, and Gerard held completely motionless, almost shaking with the effort while Frank shuddered beneath him. That was it. He could handle this.

“God, so amazing. Frank, you’re fucking amazing -- you’re doing so well,” Gerard insisted, though Frank could barely hear him over the throbbing of his own heart. It was getting better, slowly. The burn was almost gone now, replaced by a comfortable warmth seeping through his veins, and he was just beginning to get used to it when Gerard made some sort of pained noise and shivered above him. “Please, fuck, can I--?”

He nodded. Then the burn was back, much less intense than before, and Frank squeezed his eyes shut of his own volition rather than an inability to open them. Gerard was moving, shallow thrusts that couldn’t be remotely satisfying but felt better each time. Deeper , too, until he was rocking into Frank at a speed that was just a little faster than he thought he could handle. That was -- fuck, he just felt so full, and he hadn’t even known he needed this until he’d gotten it.

Frank smiled. Actually smiled, and cracked his eyes open just enough to see Gerard as a vaguely human-shaped blur surrounded by a mass of dark hair. “Th -- this doesn’t actually suck all that much,” Frank panted. Gerard grunted in response.

In a few seconds, it went from ‘not sucking’ to ‘pretty good’, and ended somewhere around ‘holy shit, Gerard, more’.

“Holy shit, Gerard, more,” he moaned, and Gerard was happy to oblige. Frank was rock hard again, and had barely noticed that he’d lost a little momentum at first. Now he was back full force, hands clenched in the sheets for fear that a single touch would send him over the edge.

He rocked back to meet each thrust, thigh muscles burning and clenching involuntarily. His ankles were locked behind Gerard’s head -- when had he put them there? -- and he was going to come, oh God.

Gerard braced his forearms on either side of Frank’s head, leaned forward and kissed the living hell out of him. He thrust his tongue into Frank’s mouth, wet and obscene and somehow in perfect rhythm, and Gerard was everywhere: the smell of him, soft and musky,his taste completely invading Frank’s senses. The feel of him, pressing into Frank relentlessly, and the head of Frank’s dick barely brushing against his abdomen.

Frank came with a strangled cry, and it seemed to last forever, because Gerard just kept fucking him through it, drawing it out until everything felt so good that it hurt. It was fucking gut-wrenching, ripped out from the deepest part of him and splattered all over Gerard’s chest. He might have screamed, and for once in his life, Frank thanked God for soundproofing.

When he opened his eyes, Gerard was grinning at him, still rocking his hips gently. “Fucking amazing, Frankie,” he hummed, though the sentiment quickly turned into a drawn-out moan. “You okay? Can I--”

Frank re-discovered breathing. “Harder, motherfucker,” he ordered immediately following this discovery. Gerard shrugged and grabbed Frank’s hips now that he’d digressed from thrusting back to more of a wiggling motion, and slammed into him with renewed vigor. And it felt fucking good, now that he was a little less sensitive. Without the threat of approaching orgasm, he could just lay back and enjoy the feeling of Gerard inside him. Frank thought that maybe he could stay like this forever.

“Fuck -- Frank -- Frank --” Gerard groaned in time. With no further warning, he dug his nails into the soft flesh of Frank’s sides and held him there, as close together as humanly possible. “Holy shit, Frank,” and he came, shaking, eyeliner streaking down his face.

When Gerard finished, before he even pulled out, he leaned down and kissed Frank. It was deep, passionate, like he was trying to forcefully meld their mouths together. Possessive, and Frank had never felt more wanted. He took back everything he’d ever said about romance cliches and Hollywood bullshit: this was love, kissing and fucking and doing each other’s hair, stealing each other’s clothes, Gerard wiping Frank’s nose for him and not even giving a fuck. This was a love that could cross oceans, fight armies, bring down alien spacecrafts with its sheer force.

Frank voiced maybe half of this before he passed out.

~

Mikey's room was terribly, deathly silent. It must have been inside his head, a product of the situation, because even morgues were not this quiet, like all sound had been forcefully sucked from the space. He could hear Mikey's short, even breaths like a fight scene soundtrack, almost unnoticeable over the rising action but lending a certain atmosphere to the thoughts racing through Gerard's mind.

Mikey was leaning against the vanity, serious and unflinching when Gerard eased the door closed behind him, fondling something on the hardwood surface just out of view. Mikey's hair had grown out, now just brushing his jawline and enhancing the stunning frailty of his face. His legs were splayed out unnaturally, feet facing inward. Tense, like a parody of a fashion magazine cover. It was sexy in its pure awkwardness.

"Come here."

It felt like the first real sound the space had ever heard. Gerard watched Mikey's lips move without direction, and stayed where he was. "I have something for you," Mikey continued ominously. Ominously, because nothing good could possibly come from those words spoken in these circumstances. Gerard didn't move, couldn't make himself respond, just tried to steady his breathing, suddenly far too loud to his own ears. His brother rolled his eyes impatiently. He stepped forward with purpose, grabbed Gerard's hands, and dragged him back to the mirror. Suddenly, they were pressed flush from chest to thighs, and his entire body shuddered in time with Mikey's steady heartbeat. And he couldn't move.

Then he was being pushed back, just an inch or two away, and Mikey's hand was on the object again, brandishing it with all the care one would afford a newborn. Gerard should have been shocked, should have wrenched the thing out of his brother's hand, but somehow he was completely unaffected, because honestly, what else had he been expecting? It was a knife. For paring, maybe; stainless steel and solidly made, with a short blade and a handle curved for prolonged use.

"Mikey," he breathed, because it was the only word his mouth seemed capable of forming. Mikey didn't respond other than by meeting his eyes and holding him there with his gaze, as if Gerard could move of his own accord in the first place.

"Do you want to do it?" Mikey asked.

Subconsciously, he knew what was happening. He knew that this had to stop right the fuck now, because this was horrible, and wrong, and Mikey had problems. Was broken inside. But Gerard couldn't stop it. He had never had a problem with wrong, or horrible, or broken before, and besides, he wanted it too much to make it stop. His conflicted body compromised by moving neither to help nor to hinder. Mikey shrugged.

And then Gerard was being shoved back another six inches and Mikey was stripping his shirt off, deft and unselfconscious in his movements, tossing it absently to the floor beside them. He was pale, maybe even skinnier than the last time Gerard saw him, and as disgustingly appealing as ever. There was a spot just above Mikey's hipbone where the flesh dipped inward, and it was there that he placed Gerard's hand, speaking only because Gerard couldn't. "I need you to watch this." And then he pressed blade above the opposite hipbone, hard enough to whiten the surrounding skin but not enough to break it.

Gerard's hands were braced against the vanity on either side of them. He hoped Mikey had sharpened it beforehand.

Mikey sighed softly, a sound of quiet pleaseure, and pressed down in a sort of rolling motion from tip to base. There was a horrible, tangible pause during which there was no give, but it was over in an instant and his skin split in one smooth, clean line from his hip to his side. The cut was deep, maybe an inch and a half, and there was no fucking way this was going to be okay anymore, because that was too fucking much and Mikey was going to die--

And then it started bleeding.

Massive, impossible quantities of blood, streaming down his hip in an unbroken sheet, pooling on the floor below, seeping through the cracks in the wood and between Gerard's bare toes, saturating the edge of the throw rug a few feet away. And then there was no throw rug: their surroundings dissolved into an endless expanse of white nothingness, leaving only Gerard, the dresser, Mikey, and an ever-expanding pool of crimson at their feet.

Almost reverently, Gerard placed a hand just under the wound, fingers splayed, only touching enough to float on the surface tension. It was akin to the irresistibility of a rock fountain, a sheet of glimmering water so perfect that it resembled glass. Gerard felt like he was touching glass now, like with any tiny movement Mikey would shatter and crumple to the ground.

“Gerard,” he whispered, amplified impossibly, and didn't fall. He grabbed Gerard's hand then, slender fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, and pulled it up to his mouth, kissed the palm. Pulled away and licked a long stripe from wrist to fingertips.

Everything was completely silent as their eyes locked once again, but something was wrong inside them, pupils blown wide and irises dark. And Mikey was bleeding from his mouth now, too, running down his chest as he grabbed Gerard around the waist, pulled them flush together and held him there, and everything was wrong, because he should be able to loosen his brother's grip, because Mikey should be dead and the world around them was dimming, an expanse of red and pale skin and emptiness. Then something clicked and Gerard could read Mikey like a fucking open book; he was in Gerard's fucking head, smiling serenely: do you like it?

~

“Fuck!”

He was ripped back into consciousness, and would have shot straight up out of the bed had that been physically possible. Instead, lacking leverage and wrapped up in the sheets, he squirmed fruitlessly until he managed to sit up.

Holy shit.

Gerard sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, flinching when it hit knots too close to the scalp. No Mikey. He was alone, naked in the brightening morning sun streaming through his window. Frank must have left, a ridiculously early riser only in his own home. He vaguely remembered tucking the two of them in, hiding the evidence but apparently neglecting to clothe himself, which was frankly a dead giveaway. Not that the fact they were fucking was news to anybody in the house (hopefully save Linda and Jeff).

It wasn't until he attempted to roll out of bed that he realized he had a problem. Not a very comfortable problem on which to roll, and he squeaked in a very un-manly fashion when he tried anyway: Gerard was hard. Of fucking course.

“Goddammit,” he muttered aloud. Couldn't his dick chill the fuck out for like one second? He glared at it. This was a contest of wills: either the boner had to go or Gerard did.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom thoroughly defeated, with little to show for it except heavy eye makeup and slightly less tangled hair. The dream was already fading, yellowing around the edges, cracking and popping like old vinyl, but Gerard still thought he could smell blood. And seriously, what the fuck was going in in his head that could trigger something like that? This was the stuff of nightmares, quite literally, but like, serial killer's nightmares. Some kind of horrifying nightmare/wet dream hybrid, leaving him confused and aroused. Mostly confused.

He mentioned it over breakfast. Not in detail, obviously.

“Had this crazy dream last night. Think I need to be sleeping more.”

“I do hope you all are sleeping,” Mrs. Iero said, serving up the last portion of overly-cripsy bacon, courtesy of Frank.

“Frank's been sleeping plenty.” Ray shrugged. “Gerard's spent most of the trip awake and complaining about it.” Cue chuckling from around the table.

This whole thing was just weird: Gerard couldn't recall the last time the Way family sat down together for breakfast. Sure, he and Mikey used to walk out the door with matching pieces of toast sticking out of their mouths, re-sealable mugs in hand, prepared for some hardcore bus-stop breakfast action. Gerard and Mikey technically sat down for breakfast together on weekdays, but it didn't count if it was a covered bench. Hell, they were lucky that it was even covered, else they fall victim to the evils of soggy toast and runny eyeliner on rainy days.

“So what was up with your dream?”

When Gerard looked up, he was met with Frank's smiling face, toast hanging from his mouth by a corner while he dumped sugar in his coffee. That was where the coincidence ended, though: where Frank was obscenely bubbly, Mikey was a veritable walking corpse in the mornings.

“Don't play with your food,” Mrs. Iero chided, effectively saving Gerard's ass and earning a nasty look from Frank.

~

The three boxes sitting on the stoop were mostly full of clothes and records. Frank had hesitated, but Bob insisted that he bring his collection, because there was plenty of room in the apartment, and it was basically all he owned anyway, right? And Frank had nodded, secretly pleased. It was Gerard's and Ray's job to load these up for some reason, which Gerard guessed was okay: it wasn't like it was much actual work, especially since he let Ray do the not-so-heavy lifting while he slid them into the back, where the drum set was supposed to go. It also meant he had a legitimate excuse to miss the tearful goodbyes – at least he assumed they were tearful; he hadn't stuck around long enough to find out – currently commencing inside.

When they were done, which only took like five minutes, seriously, Ray sat down in the back, letting his legs hang out the door.

“How many black t-shirts does this guy own?”

“Are you snooping?” Gerard asked incredulously, craning his neck to look behind Ray. Indeed, he was elbow-deep in a box of black t-shirts. Ray didn't answer, just smiled apologetically.

Gerard smiled back. “All the black t-shirts,” he said.

“He owns all the black t-shirts?”

“All of them,” Gerard confirmed.

Frank chose that moment to launch himself through the back doors, oblivious to Ray and his snooping. He landed in a lump on the leftmost seat.

“Let's flip this shitwagon!” He crowed.

Ray stared. “What does that even mean?”

“Just roll with it,” Gerard advised, patting Ray on the shoulder and hopping over the boxes.

A door slammed; birds squawked on telephone lines, apathetic toward Frank, his shitwagon, and any flipping thereof. Then Bob strode out the front door, cool as a cucumber that just killed ten dudes with some bubblegum and and a six-pack of diet Pepsi. Gerard lamented the fact that no matter how hard he tried, it was unlikely that he would ever be anywhere near that cool. Bob had a fucking lip ring, seriously, and if that wasn’t cool, Gerard didn’t know what was. Maybe matching leather jackets? Anyway, he would totally get a lip ring if he wasn’t so opposed to the thought of sharp pieces of metal being jammed through his face.

“Loaded up?” Bob asked, sliding into the driver’s side door. Over the past day and a half, Bob had become an unspoken exception to the Only Ray Drives Ray’s Van rule: he was responsible enough, unlike the other two, and Ray saw that as reason to take shotgun when he got tired. It also meant that they could sleep on the road, in shifts, Bob cool and alert while Ray snored with his head lulled against the window, hair acting as a make-shift pillow.

“Ready when you are,” Ray said, already taking his position as right-hand-man. That left Frank and Gerard to their own devices in the back -- okay, not their own devices, because he was pretty sure that Frank had one ‘device’, and he seemed eager to whip it out regardless of the situation as of late. Anyway, they sat across from each other in the back, partially because the table separating them was an effective chastity device and partially because being squished next to a sweaty dude on a long car trip, regardless of how sexy said sweaty dude was, was miserable.

Frank, apparently recovered from his flying leap, buckled up without even being asked -- Gerard was so proud of him -- and folded up the Chastity Table.

“For shin-kicking purposes?” Gerard asked wearily.

“For record-playing purposes, motherfucker!”

Gerard turned to Ray. “There’s an outlet?”

“There’s always been an outlet, dude. In the cigarette lighter. Noisy as hell, but--”

“I’ll show you noisy as hell!” Frank said, and it would have made for awesome dramatic effect had he actually lowered the needle at that point, but as it turned out, there were several hoops through which to jump before that was a possibility, not least of which was getting the damn thing out of the box.

“Pretty sure that’s not gonna work with how shitty the roads are around here,” Bob said.

“Yeah,” added Gerard. “It’ll bounce all over the place.”

Frank tried anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

When Mikey's phone beeped for the first time – it was set to beep when someone texted him, because ringers were for assholes – he was asleep on the couch. During the four subsequent beeps, he was sitting shirtless on Pete's (Patrick's) bed, feeling very much like a convicted criminal being interrogated.

“You don't have to tell me,” Pete said, but Mikey knew that he really meant I'm going to be very disappointed if you don't tell me. And more than Pete's angry scowls or the indignant way he cocked his hips when Patrick said something he didn't like, Mikey hated how quiet he got when he was disappointed.

“I got in a tanfight,” he admitted, because that part was relatively easy to admit. Baby steps.

Pete presses his lips together in a tight line, ignoring the way Mikey flinched as he unwrapped the last of the bandage. Instead of responding, he asked “Have you been keeping this clean?”

Mikey shrugged.

“Michael.” And fuck, he wished Pete wouldn't call him that.

“Not really,” Mikey said. “Gerard bandaged it up and I just kind of left it like that.”

He didn't dare look at his shoulder, because judging by the state of the bandage, it wouldn't be pretty.

“You should be changing it every other day at least.” And as an afterthought: “You should have gone to the hospital.”

“It's not that bad,” he said, kicking his bare feet against the bottom edge of the mattress and watching them bounce. “The ones on my forearms healed up just fine,” and he held his hands up to his head in a fighting stance, showing off the fading scars on his arms, almost parallel and running from wrist to elbow at their longest.

“I can still see them. Mikey--” Pete dipped the gauze in whatever, probably peroxide, “--are you sure you didn't do this yourself?”

It was like a slap in the face; he had to actually stop himself from physically recoiling. “What? Pete, no-- fuck no!”

“It's okay if you did.”

“I didn't.”

There was a pause, the soaked gauze hovering an inch above his shoulder, in his blind spot.

“You promise you'd tell me if you did?”

Mikey nodded vehemently.

“Okay,” Pete said, and he started cleaning it. Mikey flinched, because he could have at least given some warning, but he stopped himself from making a sound.

“Shh,” Pete soothed regardless. “You're okay. Just be glad it's not infected. Small miracle, considering you didn't change it.”

Mikey continued looking at his feet while Pete sponged at his shoulder. He should have changed it. He knew he should have changed it – and in his defense, he did drench the thing in peroxide after Gerard left, slathered an entire tube of Neosporin on there and re-wrapped it, but he was honestly afraid of what would happen if he changed the bandage. He could unwind it only to find that the bleeding had started again, or worse, that it was healed. He didn't tell Pete about that last bit.

“Your phone is beeping.”

“Huh?” Mikey asked, looking up at him in surprise.

“You phone's beeping,” Pete said again. Oh.

“Oh,” said Mikey. “Text. Just leave it. I'll get it later.”

Pete nodded.

The tension in the room suffocating, and not the good kind of suffocating either. Pete obviously knew that Mikey was withholding information, was just waiting for him to explain, and that pressure was uncomfortable to say the least.

He sighed, ignoring Pete's questioning glance in favor of looking around the room, everywhere but his shoulder. He supposed that he could just tell Pete, because really, what was the worst case scenario? He was disgusted and threw Mikey out? Whatever, Mikey could always just go back to his house; his mom probably hadn't even noticed he was gone. The Wentz-Stump household could probably use the bed space anyway. Pete wouldn't report them to the cops or anything – that would just be a dick move, and while Pete was certainly a dick, he wasn't that kind of dick.

“I really did get it in a fight,” Mikey said, not even flinching as Pete began re-wrapping. “That part is true.”

“So there's a lie in there somewhere, right?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Just withheld information, I guess.”

Pete didn't comment.

“Alright. Truth?”

“Fucking spit it out, Mikeyway.”

Mikey sighed again. “Okay.”

How was he supposed to put this? ‘Yeah, remember my brother? He helped me bandage that up the first time, and then we made out and he jammed his fingers in there and I fucking loved it.’ There was no delicacy here, no possible way to ease him into the topic, so he just went for it. Not in so many words, of course, but pretty damn close:

“I told you about Gerard, right?”

“Who?”

He rolled his eyes. “My brother, Gerard.”

“Ah, right. The cool one. Right.”

“You can’t even know that because you haven’t met him.”

“Whatever.”

“Anyway,” Mikey said, “I came home with this thing--” he gestured to his shoulder “--and Gerard was being kind of weird.” Mikey didn’t actually recall much of anything preceding the pivotal kiss, but he assumed weirdness by default. “He helped me bandage it up, but then he started getting really into it. Like, really into it.” He nodded for emphasis.

Pete secured the bandage, and somehow having his undivided attention made this far more difficult. “You mean, like...?”

Mikey shrugged.

“He kissed me.”

“Your brother?”

“My brother,” Mikey confirmed. “And then he ran off to, I don’t know, wallow in self-pity or something, and I sat in my room for about twenty minutes with a boner that wouldn’t go down, and -- don’t look at me like that, I’m serious -- and I was fucking confused.” He actually scowled a little bit. “Pete, I wanted him.”

“Keep going,” Pete said emotionlessly when Mikey forgot how to use words.

“You’re judging.”

“Of course I’m judging. And I know there’s more. Keep talking. Ran off to travel the world, right?”

“Not yet. He was obviously thinking about it though, I mean, he came back to pack. And he came to say goodbye, and I just couldn’t help it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me -- I kind of jumped him. And he pushed me off and started explaining all this crazy shit about how he had to leave because he was afraid he was going to hurt me. I didn’t really believe him, because you have to understand, Gerard pulls melodramatic shit like that all the time. Not incestual melodramatic shit, but this is a guy who literally cries over burnt toast. He overreacts.”

Pete was just staring at him, gaze level and totally fucking creepy. Mikey even felt a little threatened, because creepy staring was supposed to be his forte, but he continued when Pete didn’t speak. “And I tried to tell him that I was okay with that, that I didn’t care that he was my brother because I wanted him -- and I was kind of fucked up in the head, but that’s still true. He told me that he was serious. He said he wasn’t worried about breaking my heart. He was worried about breaking my ribs.”

Ah, there it was: finally, a hint of concern on Pete’s face. Took him long enough.

“Mikey,” he said softly, but Mikey turned away. He wasn’t going to look this guy in the eye and tell him that he was okay with being abused, but maybe he could do it without the eye contact. So he took a deep breath and absolutely, positively did not cry.

“He said that the blood turned him on -- that he saw my shoulder and wanted to be the one doing that to me,” he said in one breath. “And I told him -- I said that I didn’t care. And I kissed him.” Pete’s grimace deepened. Better scowl while he could, because it was only getting worse from here. “He kissed me back. And you know, I was already... hard, so we were kind of grinding against the door. And then he got his fingers under the bandage.”

“Mikey.”

But Mikey didn’t look at him, didn’t listen. “He basically fingered it. Like, I don’t even know if that’s something you can do, but that’s what it felt like. And it fucking hurt -- oh my fucking God it hurt, but Pete, I wanted it.” He felt the need to justify here, and if Pete could do without the details, fuck him. “It was like it hurt so bad that I couldn’t really feel it anymore, and it was just that idea of Gerard hurting me that got me off. Better than sex.”

“Mikey.”

“And I came in my pants, just from that.”

When he looked up again, it was only to find that Pete had crossed the line between concern and legitimate anger. His face wasn’t red; his hands weren’t exactly shaking, but it was there in his eyes: Mikey could tell that deep down, Pete was fucking livid.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. Like it would help.

“I’m not mad that he’s your brother,” Pete said at last, restrained.

“Are you gonna report us or something?” Mikey couldn’t help but ask.

“Fuck no,” said Pete. “I told you I don’t care about that. Anyway, this is the only state where it’s legal.”

“...Really?”

“If you’re eighteen and it’s consensual, yeah.” And Mikey... didn’t know that, but he wasn’t going to push the issue because Pete was obviously angry about something. “No, I’m pissed because you’re so fucking reckless. I mean -- goddamn it, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“With my shoulder?”

“Yes, with your fucking shoulder!” He threw his hands up, frustrated. “I just -- Jesus Christ, Mikey. I literally cannot think of a more dangerous fetish.”

Mikey could think of a few, but he didn’t mention that either. “I’m sorry,” he repeated instead.

“That’s not good enough.” And then Pete was in his face, teeth gritted. Now his hands were shaking, just a bit. “Fuck infection, you’re lucky you didn’t lose your arm or something!”

“Pete--”

“Don’t fucking start. Don’t tell me it’s not that bad. It is absolutely that fucking bad!”

“I think maybe you’re overreacting.”

“Mikey, you’re not fucking listening to me. You’re not -- just -- fuck.” Pete hesitated, sighed, stepped back. “Hold still,” he said. It was only when Mikey opened his eyes in confusion that he realized he’d been squeezing them shut in the first place. Pete was already mostly behind him, holding his wrists together with one hand, hard enough to grind bone against bone.

He gritted his teeth. “What are you doing?”

Pete didn’t answer, not really, but his intentions became clear as soon as Mikey felt the first loop of restrictive elastic replace the hand. He could actually feel Pete’s heart speed up as he forewent the connectors and instead knotted the material, tight enough that Mikey was already anticipating uncomfortably decreased bloodflow to his hands. Apparently sensing this, Pete loosened it just a bit and began wrapping the rest of the bandage flat around his forearms, muttering:

“I don’t want to do this to you, I hope you know.”

Mikey didn’t ask what he was doing exactly, nor did he point out that Pete had some kind of crazy anger-boner and obviously really wanted to do this to him. Now wasn’t the time.

He should have seen this coming when he saw Pete and bandages in the same room. Seriously, why did he even have elastic ones if not for this purpose exactly? You didn’t need elastic bandages unless you were dealing with a sprain or something -- Mikey had managed to fail health class his Junior year and he fucking knew that. And oh God, they went all the way to his upper arms before he tied them off, forcing them together uncomfortably and pretty much ridding Mikey of any ability to hold himself upright. Pete didn’t give a fuck, just let him fall backwards.

“Don't tell me you're sorry,” he said, pacing back and forth like some sort of movie villain. This is how I plan to destroy you, Mikeyway. Through lack of bloodflow to his brain, maybe – yeah, he was hard already, probably inappropriately so, but if Pete was going to tie him up with fucking bandages, Mikey thought it was okay to get a boner, though it was kind of freaky how goddamn fast it happened.

“I'm not sorry, then,” Mikey shot back. “I mean, shit, what do you want me to say?”

Pete glared at him. “I need you to promise me that you'll be safe from now on.”

“You don't have to tie me up to get me to say that.”

“How am I supposed to believe you when we met in a goddamn mosh pit?”

Mikey was inclined to argue that moshing was not necessarily unsafe, but he was really in no position to make that claim. Instead, he sighed and gave in. “I promise I'll be safe.”

Pete stopped pacing just long enough to give him a whithering glare. “I just don't think you can say that and mean it.”

“Fuck,” and then it was back to pacing. “I'm doing my best here. I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

It was only then, when Mikey's biceps were beginning to ache and he was no longer sure where the conversation was headed, that Pete switched on, so to speak: this subtle little change from friendly advice to flat-out orders. And as much as Mikey hated to admit it, he'd been anticipating this since he smelled anesthetic for the first time. It was probably for the best.

“Don't say anything.”

Then Pete's hands were on his shoulders (fuck, his goddamn shoulder) and he was sitting upright, knees on the bed, leaning back on his bound hands. One slip and he'd lose his balance again. Deft hands slipped his pants down under his knees in one smooth motion, which at least meant he could use the resistance of the fabric to further support himself. His briefs followed, and Mikey didn't say anything.

“Mikeyway, you ungrateful little bitch,” Pete began. Damn, this was a side of him that Mikey had never seen, authoritative from the start – he usually forwent the insults until he was about to come. Mikey was into this already. “I take you in and teach you the ways of the world, and how do you repay me? By running off to fuck your brother?”

He tried his best to tune out everything wrong with that allegation in favor of focusing on the fire in Pete's eyes, fierce and unmistakable. “He didn't fuck me,” Mikey said quietly.

Pete huffed. “Don't talk back to me.”

“Sorry,” said Mikey.

“Just don't fucking talk.”

Mikey nodded.

“And I know he didn't fuck you,” Pete continued with a sneer, “but you wanted him to, didn't you? Would have dropped to all fours right there if he'd asked? We both know you would, you fucking slut. Because this is how I see it: you wanted your brother's cock--” and somehow Pete made 'brother' sound like the filthiest word in that sentence “--but settled for his fingers when you couldn't have that. Anything to get him inside you, right?”

Everything made more sense when Pete stepped forward and Mikey was faced with the obvious hard-on in his jeans: he was getting off on this, of course. Mikey couldn't deny that he was too, especially not without the luxury of pants to hide it. No, he was rock solid and leaking already, like maybe he could come if Pete just said his name again. Fucking hair trigger.

When he finally got some friction, though – just Pete's palm on the head of his dick, barely even touching – he didn't come, thank God. Rather, he felt creeping edges of warmth in his mind, slipping into that little world where Pete knew best and Mikey didn't know shit, didn't have to do anything but follow orders. It was a calm place, where everything was completely silent and he was enclosed, safe, like a train car floating along the tracks. One direction: forward. Mikey was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

“Good, isn't it?”

Mikey whimpered in response, earning him a few quick strokes.

“Would be better if it was your brother, right?” But he wasn't sure about that one. Maybe? Things were pretty cool as they were.

He didn't answer, and Pete didn't seem to like that: he tightened his grip suddenly, hissed in Mikey's ear. “Because it's fucking not.” And his train car was shaking, suddenly, derailed, plummeting off the track with him inside it, and Pete was jerking him off, hard and unforgiving. “You belong to me, Mikey, and I want you to remember that.” And oh fuck, Mikey was so close that he could taste it, two minutes in and yet fully formed, and he knew he should hold back but he didn't want to.

Pete held back for him. He let go entirely and stepped back to survey his work: Mikey, panting and sweating and probably about to topple over backwards. Goddamn it.

“And as my property, I want to keep you in one piece.” Then it was back to pacing and fucking lecturing, because apparently Pete could not have sex with anybody without talking their ears off first. Mikey just didn't understand how he could do it, because he wasn't the only one obviously turned on by this. Pete was torturing both of them, and Mikey would have pointed that out had he been able to do anything but hang his head and pant open-mouthed.

“You know, I don't care that you're a pain slut. I care that you're being reckless about it. Mikey, look at me.” He grabbed Mikey's chin at that, jerked it upward until their eyes met. It forced his mouth closed, which Mikey didn't like, because he felt like he couldn't get enough oxygen that way. “If you really want him to hurt you – if you want scars, that's not my problem. I don't even care if you want him to finger your fucking open wounds, Mikey--” and Mikey ducked his head and moaned at this, couldn't help it, but Pete grabbed his hair and yanked him back up again. “Fucking listen to me, you stupid whore. If you're going to do shit like that--” he tightened his grip until Mikey whimpered “-- you're going to be safe.” And then he grabbed Mikey's cock again, hallelujah, but didn't stroke. Just fucking squeezed, for like, emphasis or something. Mikey didn't know. Mikey just wanted to come. “That means you disinfect everything. You sterilize everything. You change your goddamn bandages.”

“I'm sorry,” Mikey choked out.

Pete slapped him. Flat out slapped him across the face, and it was literally the last thing he expected. And it hurt. “Don't tell me you're sorry, fucking listen to me. I will buy you a goddamn autoclave if that's what it takes to make you think about what you're doing before you do it. You're going to use some fucking common sense from now on. Use your fucking head, Mikey; it's not that hard.”

Much to his relief, Pete started slowly stroking him, nowhere near enough but at least it was something. “Now,” he continued, “tell me what you're going to do next time you feel the need to do something reckless.”

Mikey forced his eyes open and stared blearily up at him. Flushed, hair mussed and clinging to his face, the very picture of debauchery. He could do this, he told himself, because if he did, Pete might finally let him come.

“I'm gonna use my head.”

Pete nodded. “And?”

“What?” Mikey groaned, because his hand stopped moving.

“You're going to disinfect everything.”

“Right, yeah,” he breathed, “disinfect everything. S -- sterilize everything. Ch -- change my bandages.”

“Take care of yourself,” Pete said. Fuck, he was so close, just a little more and he was done for.

“Take care of myself,” Mikey repeated. And then he moaned, long and loud, trailing off into more of a cough than anything. Just ten more seconds, holy shit, ten more seconds.

Pete stopped.

“I could do this all day, you know,” he sneered, breathless but completely sincere, and Mikey believed him. Hell, the very concept of it – the idea of kneeling here for hours, arms cramping and stomach muscles giving it their all just to keep him upright, so close to coming that it ached deep inside him – made him want to fucking die, but in a good way. An incredible way, because some part of him reveled in this. He was completely at Pete's mercy, subject to his idea of dirty talk (more like verbal abuse) on top of what might as well be actual physical abuse, and as difficult as it was not to keel over right then and there, it made everything so simple somehow: Mikey didn't have to worry about anything at all, because even if he fell, Pete would pick him up again. And he thought that maybe he would be okay if Pete never let him come. Maybe he would die of want, or maybe he could just stay like this forever. It wasn't really up to him.

“I won't do that to you, though,” Pete crooned, hands braced on both of Mikey's thighs, feeling the muscles quiver. “If you're good.”

“I'll be good,” Mikey said.

Pete smiled. “I'm sure you will be. One more time, baby, tell me what you're gonna do.”

“Ah, fuck. T -- take care of myself?”

“Mmhm. What else?”

“Clean everything. And use my head; oh my God, Pete--”

“Good enough.” He laughed, sank his teeth into the shell of Mikey's ear, too hard, and Mikey could barely feel it through the haze of pleasure, the ache pervading every muscle in his body.

“Please--” he said.

“Mm, go ahead and beg, bitch. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please, Pete, need it so fuckin' bad -- just let me come. I'll be good, fuck, Pete, just -- I'll do fucking anything--”

He squeezed, didn't stroke. “Anything?”

“Anything. Fuck, you wanna--? Lemme suck your cock. Please, fucking please, I'll make it good--”

“You don't have to,” Pete said, genuine amusement in his eyes, because yeah, this whole situation was just fucking hilarious. Then, without warning, he lifted himself up to sit between Mikey's legs, digging his nails into Mikey's bare thighs for leverage. He slipped his hands under Mikey's ass, helped him up to straddle one of his still-clothed legs.

“I'll let you come,” he continued, “but I'm not gonna touch you.”

Mikey stared up at him with wide eyes.

“You heard me. Know you want to. Go ahead, rub off on me.”

He didn't have the strength to even consider disobeying, so he tentaively rolled his hips against Pete's thigh. It took all his self restraint not to cry from relief. As in, crying was a genuine possibility here. He was turning into Gerard.

“There you go,” Pete said, and he pulled Mikey even closer, so that the head of his cock brushed against Pete's abdomen with every movement. Mikey couldn't support himself in this position, so he rested his head on Pete's shoulder, arched back into the hands around his waist. And Mikey stopped holding back, started grinding in earnest, frantic and without finesse. Pete only encouraged him, though Mikey had stopped paying attention to what he was actually saying as soon as they found the position.

When he finally came, fists clenched tight enough in their restraints to leave little half-moons embedded in his palms, it was quick but mind-blowingly intense. Mikey bit down on a strangled cry as his orgasm shuddered through him, making his insides raw and his head spin, knocking the breath out of him. He convulsed once, twice, three times and collapsed backward into Pete's waiting arms.

Everything was a blur after that, though he was pretty sure that Pete came on his face at some point. That was okay; Mikey didn't mind. Pete could come on his face if he really wanted to. He knew for sure that Pete cleaned him up, because he remembered the damp cloth against his skin and the relief when Pete removed the bandages, folded his aching arms over his chest, pulled the sheets up to cover him. He remembered his phone beeping, remembered Pete telling him not to worry about it. He remembered the whispered words against his cheek, 'beautiful' and 'perfect' and 'Mikey, you did so well'. That was nice; that was okay.

Mikey was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

~

“Everything sucks,” Frank announced. “He probably ran away after you, and now he's living under a bridge somewhere. Or like, he was adopted by a pack of squirrels or something.”

“Frank,” Ray hissed, elbowing him in the ribs.

Frank stared at him dolefully. “Just don't blame me when we find him in the middle of the woods, protecting his acorn stash.”

“It's only been--” Bob checked his watch “--two hours since you tried the first time.”

“Yeah,” Gerard snorted, “and I did it in the car because I knew something like this would happen. I was hoping that we could just pick him up and leave.”

“I'm sure he just hasn't checked his texts.”

Gerard stared. Then, after a moment, “Have you heard a word I've said about Mikey? He replies to your texts before you send them!”

Three hours ago, Ray remembered that his cellphone not only worked, but that he had payed for unlimited texting through the month, which was honestly a small miracle. Why he hadn't remembered at a more convenient time, the world would never know. Gerard texted Mikey. When half an hour passed with no response, he tried again: mikey its gerard where r u. Now, standing on his own front stoop, watching Frank attempt to peer through the darkened windows one by one, he snatched the phone from Ray one last time and pounded out a short message.

“That's all we can do,” Ray said when he was finished, pocketing the phone. “Maybe we should go wait somewhere, take you mind off of things.”

Gerard flinched away from the comforting hand on his shoulder, ducked his head. He wasn't going to cry, wasn't going to fucking cry, and this had really become a problem lately, hadn't it? He felt like all he was ever doing was crying or attempting not to cry, and he was fucking sick of it.

Ray must have caught a glimpse of his face or something, because he was suddenly in comforting mode, throwing an arm around Gerard's shoulders whether he liked it or not. They looked at each other for a second, Ray's eyes huge with concern, and then he spoke: “Dude, are you sure you're okay?” And Gerard just lost it. The stress that had been eating away at him for days, the constant onslaught of 'where's Mikey' and 'how's Mikey' and 'what's Mikey going to say when we get there' came pouring out like liquid from an overfilled keg, drenching everything. Gerard whined, high in his throat, and then kind of collapsed into Ray's shoulder, bawling his eyes out. Ray caught him just in time and, to his credit, only stumbled a little bit.

“Woah, dude, Gerard, it's okay,” he said, clearly startled, rubbing circles between Gerard's shoulderblades with the heel of one hand. “You're gonna be fine. We'll find him, okay? Do you -- look, Gee, how about we go get you a drink.”

“Noooo,” Gerard groaned, but Ray wasn't having any of that.

“I'm gonna buy you a beer, okay? And everything's going to be fine.”

~

They wouldn't let Frank into the only legitimate bar in Belleville, so in order to quell his complaining, Bob offered to take him to the mall instead.

Yeah, Gerard supposed they did have a mall, though he'd completely forgotten about its existence until they passed it on the way into town. In retrospect, all he remembered was that Harley-Davidson was the largest store in it, which, okay, was a little weird for a town like Belleville.

He remembered the bar pretty clearly.

Nothing in town was really shady: walk ten minutes to the next town over and crime rates inexplicably tripled, but Belleville itself was apparently run by adorable grandmothers and maintained by the best cops in the world. Gerard wouldn't really know; he made a habit of staying under the radar. He did know that his standard haunt had significantly less personality than Three Card Charlie's, but that was honestly okay with him. Gerard didn’t need personality. He just needed to drink until he was too dehydrated to cry.

Ray, who had obviously seen the inside of more movie bars than actual bars, sat down and asked for “two of whatever's on tap,” obviously hoping that it was really that simple. It wasn't. The bartender sighed and started naming brews, and Gerard intervened.

“Two fuzzy navels,” he interrupted. He didn't really like beer anyway.

The guy smiled gratefully, and as soon as he set to work preparing their oh-so-complicated drinks, Ray shot him and inquisitive glance.

“It's vodka and orange juice,” Gerard said dully.

“Oh,” Ray said.

“Yeah.”

Gerard thanked the guy and started drinking to fill the silence. He honestly wasn't sure if he was still crying or not. He was very sure that everybody noticed regardless.

“D'you wanna talk?” Ray asked, pointedly not touching his drink. Gerard didn't answer. Yes, he did kind of need to talk, but he couldn't just say that. Ray thought that you could just say that. So of course Gerard didn't answer – that, and he was afraid he might start crying again if he opened his mouth.

“It's okay if you don't,” Ray said after a moment of silence. “But it's gonna be fine, I swear. I mean, I know it doesn't feel that way now, but we'll find him.”

“Hopefully not in the middle of the forest,” Gerard joked, and Ray's eyes widened.

“That's the spirit,” he said.

Then it was right back to depressive silence, staring into his drink. Gerard should have been a poet, maybe moved to Ireland -- at least then he could cite drinking and complaining as part of his job. Maybe a fake singer for a fake band was close enough.

The thing was, he wasn't really worried about finding Mikey: his brother was bound to turn up, because if he'd actually gotten lost, actually followed Gerard, he would have checked his cellphone obsessively for news. Sure, it had been almost two weeks, but Gerard had faith in his brother's dedication. What he was really worried about was that maybe Mikey had come to his senses while he was away. When he left, Mikey seemed perfectly willing to abandon everything in favor of becoming like, Gerard's sex slave or something. And that was fucking stupid; that was the least plausible outcome (closely followed by starting a rock band wherein every member was okay with incest, which seemed to be where they were inexplicably headed). Anyway, he was worried that in his absence, Mikey had realized how sick this whole thing was and gone to see a therapist or something.

“You're thinking,” said Ray.

Gerard looked up. Yeah, of-fucking-course he was thinking; that was what you were supposed to do immediately following crying into your vodka. Ray, on the other hand, seemed to think that it was an ideal time for heart-to-heart conversation. Gerard sighed.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“About Mikey?”

“About Mikey.”

Ray stared on expectantly, and he looked almost more naive than Frank. Gerard seriously considered just fucking telling him. Seriously enough to grab Ray's drink, down it in a few gulps – he obviously didn't want it, and Gerard didn't even feel bad about taking advantage of his hospitality anymore. They were in a fucking band, sort of, and Gerard could take advantage of Ray if he wanted to. He finished the drink, and, done aiming for Ray's wallet in his quest to take advantage of things, locked Ray's open-mindedness squarely in his crossfire.

“If I tell you something important, can you promise not to judge or anything?” He asked.

“Sure,” Ray said automatically. “Anything.”

“I really want you to think about that, though. Like, tell me honestly: is there anything I could say right now that would make you get in the car and leave me here?”

Ray laughed nervously. “Um, that's pretty intense. Is it really that bad? What, did you kill somebody?” His face fell. “Wait, you didn't actually kill anybody, did you?”

“No! Fucking no,” Gerard said. “But it's pretty damn heavy. I need to make sure you won't overreact before I tell you.”

“Gee,” and Ray leaned forward, arm braced on the bar, suddenly deathly serious. “You--” he dropped his tone to just above a whisper. “You gave me a handjob because you were going through withdrawal.” Gerard snorted. Ray did not seem amused. “Whatever you have to say, I promise we'll at least talk it over. 'Kay?”

“Okay,” Gerard said. “Hah, wow. It's, uh, kind of good that you brought that up, because this is sort of related.”

Ray nodded.

“So, you're pretty okay with Frank and I, right?”

“Sure,” said Ray. “I'm cool with your lifestyle, or whatever. You could show up to practice in drag and I really wouldn't care.”

Gerard giggled. “Yeah, okay, I'll keep that in mind.”

“Oh God,” Ray smiled. “You'd make a pretty damn convincing chick, too. With those eyes?”

“Shut up shut up!” Gerard laughed, and then he managed to get himself under control. “Important conversation, remember?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ray said. “I'll stop complimenting your eyes. I was saying that I'm okay with you and Frank.”

“Yeah,” said Gerard. Deep breath. He could do this. Gerard always felt sick to his stomach when he was anxious, as if his body needed more stress on top of the anxiety itself. “Okay,” he said again, probably subconsciously stalling for time. “Right. So, that night, when I, y'know. I was hallucinating. I thought you were somebody else. I, uh. I called you the wrong name.”

Ray stared, uncomprehending.

Gerard glanced at his feet. “Do you, uh, d'you remember what that name was?”

It took exactly three seconds for Ray's expression to shift from confusion to realization to horror. Gerard counted.

~

The third time Mikey's phone beeped, he and Pete were sound asleep in Patrick's bed, said roommate having been banished yet again to the couch, and even in sleep, Mikey was clinging so tightly to Pete that neither of them should have rightfully been able to breath. Pete did hear the phone go off, but his only reaction was to open one eye, roll them over so that Mikey was the little spoon, and fall back to sleep.

~

As far as revelations went, it could have gone much worse. Ray didn't cry. Gerard barely cried. That was something.

“I literally cannot think of a more dangerous fetish,” Ray said.

“I can,” Gerard said.

“Yeah, okay,” and Ray nodded his assent, “but really? I know that... blood, I guess, is a pretty common thing, but dude.”

“You think it's weird.”

“Yeah,” Ray admitted, “but each to his own, man. As long as you don't try to stab me or anything.”

Gerard quirked an eyebrow. “See? Not quite as bad as murder.”

“Not quite,” Ray agreed. Then he looked down at his empty glass and sighed, back up to Gerard. Working something over in his head. “Truth?” He asked.

“Sure,” said Gerard.

“I just don’t understand how you can like, feel that way about somebody who’s related to you.”

“Oh.” Gerard bit his lip and looked everywhere but at Ray. “I don’t know. We’ve always been close.”

“But it’s like, I have a sister, right? And even thinking about doing that with her makes me kind of sick. It doesn’t, for you?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Gerard snapped. “I don’t know what you’re thinking -- that it’s like, abusive or something? Because it’s not fucking abusive. We love each other.”

“You said yourself that you want to hurt him,” Ray said quietly.

That caught him a little off guard. “I don’t-- but he wants it, Ray! He was begging me to do it!”

Ray threw his hands up in defense. “Don’t give me details, dude. I don’t wanna know. Just.”

“Just turn the van around and never see him again? Because that’s it, Ray. That’s the alternative. We can’t be together and not feel this!”

“I’m not trying to stop you!” Ray all but yelled, but then he seemed to check himself, tone down his voice a bit. “You two can do what you want,” he said, leaning in. “Please, just talk to someone if you think it’s getting out of hand.”

“You?” Gerard asked.

Ray made a face. “Will Frank listen?”

And Gerard sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. Frank’ll listen.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said after a moment. “I just want you to be safe.”

“It’s okay,” Gerard said.

Ray tried to smile, and Gerard gave him points for effort. “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and find me a drink that I don't hate.”

Like that, they were back to being best friends. Though Gerard thought talking things out was important, he honestly wasn't very good at it. Girly drinks? That, he could do.

“Sweet or bitter?”

“Sweet?” Ray said, like he wasn't really sure of himself.

“Are you into martinis?”

“Dude, are you like a Cosmo survey now? I don't know. I drink beer.”

“Whatever,” Gerard began, and wow, he really did say 'whatever' a lot. “Get a White Russian. Nobody hates White Russians.” Ray nodded agreeably and motioned for the bartender.

Ray was still nursing his White Russian twenty minutes later, because he treated drinking like Gerard treated sex until the summer after his senior year: take it slow and pray you don't throw up afterwards.

“This kinda tastes like coffee,” Ray commented.

“It's supposed to taste like Kahlua,” said Gerard.

“Well yeah, but what does Kahlua taste like?”

Gerard scrunched up his face. “Coffee.”

“Right,” said Ray. “Anyway, congratulations; I don't hate it.”

“I told you, nobody hates White Russians.”

“Except maybe people who hate coffee.”

Gerard scoffed. “Well they're hardly people then, are they?”

Ray smiled. Silence.

Then, “I'm glad you told me,” he said.

“About White Russians?”

“About you and Mikey, asshole. I'm glad you told me.”

“It was hard,” Gerard said, half-smiling.

“Shut up, Gee; stop fishing for compliments,” Ray laughed. “But seriously, thanks for trusting me.”

“Thanks for not throwing me out in the cold,” said Gerard.

“Dude, your house is like ten minutes away, tops. And it’s summer.”

“Well, still.”

Ray took that opportunity to polish off his drink, finally, and swivel to face Gerard. Damn, bar stools were fucking cool. Like, you never noticed how cool they were, because if you were in a bar, chances are you were drunk, but they were fucking cool.

“One thing,” Ray said, obviously trying to be serious.

“Yeah?” Gerard said.

“You can't let this hurt the band, okay?”

Gerard was inclined to scoff – what band? – but he didn't, because this was a big thing for Ray. Hopes and dreams kind of shit. He wasn't going to crush that enthusiasm. “I promise I won't,” he said instead.

Ray nodded. “Wanna shake?”

“Hell yes,” said Gerard.

They shook.


	14. Chapter 14

Twenty minutes later, Pete rolled out of bed. Literally rolled, probably would have fallen on his face if not for Mikey's legs entwined with his. Instead, he ended up with his torso partway off the bed and the rest of him firmly stuck, a predicament that took a good five minutes to resolve. Mostly because he kept almost falling asleep in various stage of upside-down-ness, but he made it out of bed eventually, and Mikey didn't even stir.

He considered coffee, but wasn't sure about the cleanliness of the pot and didn't feel like washing the damn thing, so he settled for a Pepsi – last one in the fridge, fuck yes – instead. A quick glance at the microwave clock revealed that it was – what, about seven thirty pm? Pete didn't need coffee at seven thirty at night. Pete needed some booze.

“I need some booze,” he announced to nobody in-particular, vaguely hoping that Patrick was home. He wasn't, of course: Pete probably would have noticed if he was, unless he was sleeping under the bed again. (No shit, that was like, a legitimate thing that happened. In his defense, he was really drunk and Pete was sprawled horizontally across the bed. Why the couch wasn't an option, Pete would never know. Maybe he just had his heart set on the bed, to the point that he'd sacrifice comfort for proximity.) Anyway, Patrick wasn't home, and Pete wanted a beer, and that was really lame. He checked the fridge first, and then the cupboards, and then under the couch for good measure. No luck.

Pete made his way back into the bedroom, fully intending to grab some socks and go buy beer, when Mikey's cellphone beeped at him. He let out an undignified squeak and grabbed the thing. Without thinking, because personal space was less of a rule and more of a suggestion in Pete's book, he flipped it open and skimmed the screen: _tried the house u werent home. mieky where r u we need 2 talk xoxo gee._

He almost ignored it, but then the name jumped out at him. Gee, as in...? He had to check. Now determined, Pete flipped back through all his missed messages, and sure enough: _srry bout everything will explain wen I see u comin home now plz b ready xoxo gee_ , followed by: _mikey its gerard where r u._

He barely even hesitated, just texted: _at 256 park drv apt 107 get on cherry and turn left at the light. be here at 8. bring beer plz._

Send.

If Pete was completely fucking up Mikey's entire social life for beer, well, he couldn't really make himself feel too bad about it. Mikey needed to get over his brother issues anyway, and this was just too convenient.

~

“What the fuck is that noise? It sounds like frogs,” said Gerard, spinning around on his stool. He was going to make himself sick, but whatever. Spinning was awesome.

“It is frogs,” said Ray. “That's my ringtone. Way less annoying than like, beeping or something.”

Gerard perked right up at that, almost fell off his stool in his haste to stop it mid-revolution. “Fuck! Who is it?”

“Calm down, dude, I'm checking it.”

Ray checked it, slowly, maybe because he was a little buzzed or maybe because he just didn't understand phones. It was torture, watching him fiddle with buttons. Had he ever texted in his life? Fuck.

“Gimme that.” Gerard got sick of waiting and snatched the phone from his grip. In a few deft keystrokes, the message appeared on screen. He just stared at it for a few seconds, too relieved to speak – maybe he shouldn't have ordered his own White Russian and saved a few seconds of reaction time, but whatever.

“It's Mikey,” he said, in case Ray couldn't tell by the stunned silence. “He's not home.”

“No shit?”

“256 Park Drive, apartment 107. That's right by that shitty warehouse where we used to see shows. Fuck, Ray, do you think he got kidnapped?”

“He didn't get kidnapped,” Ray sighed, placing a reassuring hand on Gerard's shoulder. “Is that all it says?”

“Be there in half an hour. Bring beer.”

Gerard scrunched up his face. “Dude, Mikey doesn't even drink beer! Like, he'll drink vodka right from the forty, but getting him to drink a can is like pulling teeth.”

“At least it won't hurt,” Ray said.

“Huh?”

“Pulling teeth. Won't hurt if he was just drinking straight vodka.”

Gerard couldn't choose between giggling and rolling his eyes, so he did both. “Shut up shut _up_!” He stood up, with a false start and Ray's assistance.

“You sure you're okay, dude?”

Gerard flapped a hand. “I'm fine. You've gotta call Bob and tell him to meet us!”

“Sure. Uh.” Ray fidgeted. “Actually -- and like, don't kill me or anything, but I don't think Bob has a phone?”

“Uugh!” Gerard tried to voice his displeasure but only managed to grunt like a caveman. “Just -- fuck.”

“We can just go pick them up. We need to buy beer anyway.”

After a moment's hesitation, Gerard nodded pathetically. “Just don't let me drive.”

“Dude, I don't let you drive stone sober.”

~

They found Frank and Bob in the mall's obligatory hair salon: the sort with friendly neon pink lettering out front, some curlie-cued Windows default font. The upside of this was that finding them was not difficult at all; rather, Bob found _them_ on their way past Macy's, and he waved them down. The downside was that Bob and Frank were in a fucking hair salon.

The first thing Ray said was, “Don't tell me Frank's in there getting his ears pierced or something.”

“He's re-inventing himself,” Bob said simply.

Gerard snorted. “You're kidding.”

Bob shook his head sadly. He couldn't have been more out of place, towering over a rack of feather boas and purple fingerless gloves, no doubt scaring away any flamboyant young children wandering past.

“Sorry, not kidding,” Bob said. He shrugged helplessly under Ray's shrewd gaze. “The kid got bored, okay? I felt bad since he couldn't booze it up with you two.”

“We were not _boozing it up_ ,” Ray started, but shut his mouth when Gerard glared at him. “Okay yeah, so we were boozing it up just a little bit, but that's no reason to let him -- what is he even doing in there, anyway?”

Bob didn't get a chance to explain, because at that moment, Frank sauntered out of the store – yes, sauntered, tiny little hips swaying like a runway model's. For a second, Gerard didn't even recognize him as anything more than an extremely boneable stranger.

“Holy shit, Frankie.”

“Holy shit, Gee!” Frank said, and he launched himself bodily into Gerard's open arms – open more out of shock than any inclination to catch him – and would have knocked both of them over if it wasn't for Ray waiting to shove them back to their feet, like the world’s lamest mosh pit.

“Frank, your _hair_ ,” Gerard said as soon as Frank detached himself.

Frank nodded vigorously. “I'm re-inventing myself!”

“Yeah, Bob told us. It looks... awesome, dude. Just different.”

Really fucking different. Half of his hair was just gone, buzzed to maybe half an inch, and fucking _bleached_. The rest was long and black as ever, combed over in some sort of weird, deflated mohawk thing. Honestly, Gerard wished he'd thought of it first.

“Good different?” Frank asked.

“Awesome different,” said Gerard, before Ray could make further comment. “You're the littlest punk.”

Frank socked him in the stomach, which kind of fucking hurt. “Motherfucker,” he said, and, assuming his feelings were adequately conveyed, went right back to clinging to Gerard. “Y'know, I wanted to get my ear pierced too, but the lady said it wouldn't react well with the bleach.”

“Left or right?” Gerard asked.

“Right,” said Frank.

“You know that means you're a fag, right?”

“Yeah, if you lived in like the eighties and actually payed attention to that shit. Anyways, I am a fag.” He grabbed Gerard's ass for emphasis. Gerard shoved him off.

“Yeah, well. Maybe. How about I pierce it for you, the old fashioned way, with ice and a safety pin? That's how punk kids really do it.”

“For one, you're not a punk kid so you wouldn't even _know_ ,” Ray chimed in happily. Gerard shot him a dirty glare.

“Plus he'd like it too much,” Frank added.

It was only then that Gerard realized what he'd actually said, and felt a little queasy. Fact was, he was _not_ comfortable sticking a needle through somebody else's ear, so why had he said that? He seemed to let his guard down around Frank, and that bothered him a little bit.

Ray shuddered. “New subject.”

“Sorry,” Frank said.

“We came to get you 'cause Mikey texted back.”

“Oh?” Asked Bob.

“Yeah,” Ray said, identifying Bob as the dedicated Responsible Adult and turning toward him. “He's at some apartment off of Cherry. He said to bring beer.”

“He doesn't even like beer!” Frank interjected.

Silence.

Ray turned slowly toward him. “How do _you_ know that?”

“Gerard told me,” he said, blushing.

“Right,” said Ray. “Okay, yeah. We passed a supplier on the way in. Anybody have ID on them?”

Bob raised his hand.

“Cool. Here's some cash; go buy the cheapest thing they've got.”

~

“ _Pabst Blue Ribbon?_ ”

“He told me to get the cheapest thing they had,” Bob said, collected in the face of Gerard's mild annoyance.

“I know, but who the fuck even _drinks_ Pabst?”

Bob shrugged. “Farmers?”

“Are we farmers?” Gerard asked.

“We could be,” said Bob, and on that confusing note, they dropped the subject.

~

“Wake up, Mikey. I've got something for you.”

“Geddafuckout,” said Mikey, rolling over to smash his face into the pillow.

Pete sighed and forcefully removed Mikey from the bed, a dangerous process involving kicking and dead weight in approximately equal portions. When he was mostly awake, sitting on the couch in one of Pete's shirts and the jeans he’d been wearing when he passed out, he finally registered what Pete had said.

“Is that something your dick?” He asked.

Pete smiled and shook his head. “Nope. A present. I've had it for a long time. Impulse buy, you know? Just been waiting for somebody to give it to.”

“Oh God,” Mikey moaned.

“It's not that bad. Just close your eyes for a second.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Mikey said again, but he closed his eyes regardless.

For a few seconds, the only sounds he could hear were those of Pete shuffling around in the closet, which was so full that ‘shuffling around’ basically equated to ‘knocking shit over’. Then, apparently having found what he was looking for, he attempted to shut the door -- Mikey peeked -- and sat down on the couch.

“Okay?” Pete asked, and Mikey wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say, so he replied:

“Maybe.”

With that, Pete placed something around his neck, cold metal and warm suede. Mikey gasped sharply, couldn’t help it.

“Is this what I think it is?” He asked breathlessly. He went from basically asleep to panting in less than a second, and perhaps the whole teenage sex drive thing had its advantages too.

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” said Pete. A click, metallic, and then he added, “Open your eyes.”

Mikey opened his eyes. He didn’t actually expect to see it, obviously, and it turned out that he was correct in this assumption. Pete could see it, though, and Mikey could see Pete: the pure lust in his eyes, dark and feral. The I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. Mikey didn’t laugh.

“Fuck, Mikes. You’re gorgeous.”

He felt a pang of _something_ then, between grief and adoration, if that was even possible, because Pete didn’t use that nickname, as a rule. That was a Gerard thing and he was pretty sure they both fucking knew it. Before he had a chance to comment, Pete grabbed him by the shoulders -- the fucking _shoulders, why?_ \-- and helped him to his feet, steered him toward the bathroom. Mikey dragged his feet. He honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to see. The bathroom was only a few feet away, though, so there was really no delaying it.

His reflection was vaguely foggy in the age-stained mirror, but Mikey could still see _it_ clear as day: black, silver and leather. It was smaller than he’d imagined, because it _felt_ fucking imposing around his neck, heavy and so very real. In the mirror, it was less than an inch wide. Very inconspicuous, resting loose against his sharp collarbones. Mikey’s stomach turned.

Pete stepped closer, placing a hand on his waist. “You can’t see in the mirror,” he said, voice almost a whisper, because even though there was nobody to hear, this was _theirs_ , “but there’s a clasp in the back. It locks, if you want it to.”

Mikey couldn’t help it; he shuddered at the words and subconsciously spread his legs a few inches. He braced his hands on the counter. Fuck. Looking at his reflection, cheeks flushed and mouth open just a bit, Mikey didn’t know what was _wrong_ with him, that the concept of being locked in turned him on so much. And Pete was watching him watch himself, both hands on Mikey’s hips now, pressing the two of them together.

“Do you want me to lock it?” He asked.

It took a second for Mikey to find his voice. “Please.”

How had he not noticed the metal digging into his hip until now, in the palm of Pete’s hand? It was cold and solid, like the D-ring pressed into the dip above Mikey’s chest, too low.

“Wait,” Mikey said, and Pete froze immediately. He was always so fucking _concerned_ about everything, perfectly willing to make Mikey scream as long as they made sure it was okay with him first. And asking had seemed like a good idea mere seconds ago, but Pete’s careful demeanor brought rise to second thoughts. But Mikey wanted it. Really, seriously fucking wanted it, so he threw caution to the wind. “Can you--” he stuttered. “C -- can you tighten it?”

Pete sighed audibly behind him, and it just blew Mikey’s mind to realize that he was worried Mikey was going to _stop_ him. Because that was what the sigh was about; he was fucking sure of it. Pete wanted it just as much as he did.

“Tighter?” He breathed, making sure.

Mikey nodded. “ _Please._ ”

Then, without a second’s hesitation, he bent back the clasp and _yanked_.

Mikey’s heart skipped a beat. And then another, and another, and he couldn’t breathe; he was trying to cough but couldn’t get enough air. Pete’s reflection just watched him and held steady, Mikey’s foggy breath on the mirror disappearing and not being replace. He didn’t really know how long, just that it passed the edge of play and into real desperation, at least for his body. He didn’t want air; he needed air. His mind could care less, was fully content under Pete’s not-so-gentle hand.

He eased off, finally, and Mikey gasped embarrassingly, half coughing, half still choking. Without his mind’s consent, his body collapsed a little further onto the counter. Pete didn’t speak, just trailed a hand down his back, cupped his ass, back up to lace in his hair. He used this leverage to wrench Mikey’s head up, show him his reflection in the mirror, somehow both flushed and pasty white.

“Beautiful,” Pete whispered. Not the word Mikey would have chosen, but he supposed pasty could be beautiful. _Gerard_ was beautiful.

Finally, Pete returned his attention to the collar and pulled gently this time, two notches. “One more?” He asked, and Mikey nodded automatically. Pete smiled in the mirror and added another, smooth slide of leather on leather under the cheap fluorescent. He fastened the clasp together.

There was a click, slightly ominous and yet infinitely comforting, and he could feel Pete slip the key into the lock, turn it. Could see him place it on the far end of the counter, perfectly within reach should Mikey choose to take it, some sort of conspicuous offering. Mikey didn't take it.

“Done,” Pete said, soothing. “You can relax.”

Mikey didn't realize how tense he was until those words and when he did, it was hard to un -tense. Pete seemed to understand this, because he might be a douchebag but he also _understood_ Mikey. Could help him express things he wasn't willing to say out loud. And so he sensed the tension, the nervousness in Mikey's posture – what was left of his posture, still mostly bent over the counter, reluctant to move – and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, guided him back into the living room.

Carefully, Mikey sat down, not entirely sure that he wouldn't jump Pete if he was left standing. God, he needed to get fucked. Again. Pete was withholding it, though, and Pete didn't withhold things without good reason – okay, Mikey took that back: sometimes Pete withheld things just because he was an asshole, but he didn't really think this was one of those situations. Plus, who was he to question Pete's judgment? Fucking nobody, and that was how he liked it.

“How are you doing?” Pete asked.

The apartment was unnaturally silent. Almost unnatural, because the sounds of breathing and overworked, ineffective air-conditioning were still present, but it was quiet all the same. Mikey wondered where Patrick was. Mikey wondered if Pete was going to fuck him at all.

“How are you doing?” Pete asked again, patient for once. Mikey wasn't exactly sure why. Was it the collar? Did he see this as a big step in their, their whatever – relationship? Mikey didn't see it as a big step. Honestly, he felt as if maybe it had always been there, a silent reminder. Maybe even before they met, Mikey wore it as a cross: it was a sign, maybe, that he was different. Nobody could see it but him, and he alone knew that he was uncomfortable in his own skin. Now Pete knew too, and the collar's physical manifestation was his way of remedying that. Transforming it from a cross to a marker, giving Mikey a sense of belonging.

“I'm okay,” Mikey said. Then he decided to actually tell the truth, because there was really no reason to lie in this situation. “Actually, I think I might come in my pants if you don't touch me soon.”

Pete smirked at this, but looked pleased nonetheless. “You really have a problem with that, don't you?”

Mikey remained silent.

“It's okay,” Pete said, leaning in and tugging lightly on the collar, one finger in the D-ring. “I like that you're so sensitive. I bet I could get you off just talking, huh?” And Mikey didn't respond to this either, because he knew there was really no question at all. Pete was _teasing_ him; he didn't know why, and besides, they both knew that the answer was yes.

Pete nodded tersely then, perhaps to consciously signal a subject change or perhaps out of habit, and continued. “Later, though. Right now--” and he hesitated obviously, like he wasn't sure of what he was about to say, “--I have another surprise for you.”

“What?” Mikey asked, perking up embarrassingly.

“It's not a surprise if I tell you,” Pete laughed, but there was still that undercurrent of uncertainty. “We're going to have company,” he admitted.

That wasn't what Mikey had been expecting.

“What, like, with this?” He gestured widely to the both of them, but Pete only looked confused. “With _this_ ,” he said again, tugging at the collar this time. Recognition spread across Pete's face.

“If you want it. I got it out thinking it'd make you feel safer.”

“Safer,” Mikey repeated. “So we're doing it like that. With like, you – telling me what to do. And me listening. Like that.”

“That was what I was thinking, yeah,” Pete said, “but I want you to do whatever you think will make you feel safest.”

Mikey raised an eyebrow, slightly less than passive. “Safest?”

“Yeah. There are – this is--” Pete sighed dramatically. “I don't really want to explain until they get here so that you don't worry, but this might be hard for you. I want to give you all the emotional support you can get. And think about this. I mean, answer honestly: would you feel better with the collar on or off?” It was a multi-layered question. Mikey had a feeling that the collar was more than just a strap of leather in this context: it was the difference between being in control and handing that control over to Pete. There was no contest. Mikey maybe felt a little bad that there was no contest, because every self-help book back cover he'd ever read insisted that he be assertive, take the lead in his own life, but he couldn't help it: there was no contest. Giving himself over to Pete was just... simple.

“I want it on,” he said after a moment – a long enough moment to imply at least a little introspection – and then added, “Please.”

This seemed to satisfy Pete, because he nodded and sat down too, close enough that their shoulders touched, stroked Mikey's forearm absently. “Okay,” he agreed at last. “And now that it's on, you know it's not coming off until I take it off for you or you say the safeword.”

“Is it still unicorn?” Mikey asked blearily, already lulled into a state of contentment just by the notion of security.

Pete laughed. “Do you still want it to be unicorn?”

“Mmhm,” said Mikey.

“Then it's still unicorn. Now--” and he scooted to the end of the couch, away “--they should be here soon. Would you feel better if I jerked you off?”

Mikey shrugged helplessly. No point asking _him_.

“Sure you don't care?”

He nodded.

“Then I don't think I will. I like you like this, Mikeyway. You don't really know what to do with yourself. It's cute.” He motioned for Mikey to come closer, and after a moment of shuffling around, Mikey ended up with his head in Pete's lap, curled up awkwardly in on himself. He almost felt... small again. It was kind of nice.

“ 'M not cute,” Mikey muttered halfheartedly. Pete just smiled and stroked his hair.

~

The drive from the mall to Mikey's supposed location was far too short for Gerard's liking. In fact, Gerard might be happy if they never made it at all, if the car rolled into a ditch somewhere or a nuclear power plant exploded halfway across the country, the fallout transforming them all into horrible mutants. Mutant Gerard wouldn't have to face his brother.

Somehow, within that short drive, Ray managed to get himself followed. There was a tiny sedan tailing them, so jam-packed with people that any self-respecting traffic cop would spontaneously combust upon opening the door. Music loud enough that Gerard could catch snippets of it with the windows rolled down, carried downwind. They lost the car a little before Mikey's street, but Gerard was concerned nonetheless.

“Weird,” he said, leaning up front to talk to Ray.

Ray, apparently the chillest driver on the planet, hummed noncommittally. Gerard dropped the subject.

Two fifty-six Whatever Drive was less of an apartment and more of a tiny, shitty condo, super-glued to a row of tinier, shittier condos. It looked like somebody's grandma's house, but the grandma was poor and watched reality TV instead of knitting or baking cookies. It was only upon closer inspection that Gerard realized the condo was split horizontally too, each of the three floors a separate apartment. Even tinier and shittier than previously assumed.

“This is shady,” he said just for something to say, slamming the van door.

“Mmh guh mmhnng!” Said Frank.

“Fuck, dude, sorry!” Gerard said, scrambling to open the van door again, apparently having shut Frank in because he was busy being an asshole instead of paying attention to his surroundings. Frank all but tumbled out the back, looking mildly pissed but mostly amused.

“Wow, _thanks_.”

Gerard tried to smile, only managed to twist his face up and look back to the building.

There were low, mostly dead shrubs around the steps. They might have been under the windows too at one point, but those had long since shriveled up. Gerard scowled: the scenery matched his mood, at least, because the few steps up to the house – if you could even call it that – felt very death-row-ish, and the dull reddish door was his guillotine. Apartment 107 was on the first floor. He didn't even get any fucking steps to climb. He thought he might throw up.

Gerard ambushed Ray on his way to the door, jogged around backwards to get in front of him and stop him in his tracks. Ray's hair looked unamused. “I think I might throw up,” Gerard said earnestly, like he was confiding some dark secret.

Ray rolled his eyes. “You're not going to throw up. Just open the door, dude; you'll be fine.”

Damn, he'd somehow managed to steer Gerard all the way to the door mid-conversation – Gerard stood by his previous assumption that Ray was, in fact, a fucking wizard, albeit maybe an evil one. And now the door was _right fucking there_ , behind him. His hand was on the knob without consent from his brain, and Bob was lugging the beer up the driveway while Frank attempted to climb on his back and Gerard was going to _die_. Like, he knew he said that a lot, but he was seriously going to die this time, just keel over right there on the front stoop. And Mikey would find him in the morning, once squirrels had eaten half his body and he'd just stare and call the cops. And the forensic report would say “Gerard Way – cause of death: being a pussy." But Gerard would be dead so he wouldn't even care.  
While he was busy worrying about this, Ray rang the doorbell for him. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuuuuuuck_.

“Fuuuuuck,” Gerard groaned, and then there was shuffling inside – they could hear it through the paper-thin walls – and the door opened. Not Mikey. Gerard didn't really know why he'd expected it to be Mikey considering it wasn't his address, but he still sighed in relief. No, this guy was a little bulkier, with the same shade of dark brown-black hair that everyone Gerard had ever met seemed to have, a huge smile and way too many teeth.

“Are you Gerard?” He asked, reaching out to shake Ray's hand. Ray stepped back unconsciously, shook his head and gestured to where Gerard was standing behind him. Gerard scowled. Way to take one for the team, Toro.

“That's Ray,” Gerard said. “I'm Gerard.”

“Pete!” The guy exclaimed, way too bubbly for Gerard's liking. “Cool, you're more what I was picturing. Come on in.”

“Take that however you like,” Frank whispered. Gerard jumped, because the kid was suddenly like, _right there_. He didn't answer, though, just stepped inside. Before he did, he though he saw a car pull into the driveway behind them.

Pete was in the den. That was the first thing he saw: Pete, in the process of sitting down, suave and confident in his every movement. Not necessarily the kind of guy who beat Gerard up in high school, but certainly the kind who sat and laughed while other people did. The second thing he saw was Mikey, sitting on the floor even though there was plenty of room on the couch, hands on his knees, head bowed. The others shuffled in behind him, but Gerard stood frozen in the middle of the room.

“Mikes,” he heard Pete say, and Mikey looked up. One second he was his normal, calm self, and the next his face went slack. Complete and utter shock.

He stood up, faced Gerard, opened his mouth, and then--

“Hey, Mikeyway my man! You ready to get your drink on?” Someone shouted.

“Fuck, dude, this is your place? It's fucking tiny!”

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer. Your _dick_ is fucking tiny.”

Gerard spun around just in time to dodge a beer can being chucked over his head. He winced, but there was no tell-tale splat. Just Pete, circling into his field of vision, holding it and shoving it back in the guy's face. Said guy, the one who'd thrown it, was holding a handle of cheap vodka and wearing a backwards baseball cap, _over_ a hoodie. Seriously, Gerard was a fashionista by no means, but what kind of douchebag _did_ that?

There were five, maybe six guys: a chubby one, a dude in huge jeans, a dude in tiny jeans, a kid who looked to be about ten years old but was swilling beer like nobody's business, and Hatty McDoucheFace.

Pete approached the chubby dude. “Patrick, man, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn't you hear? We're gettin' our drink on!”

“Can't you get your drink on somewhere else?” Pete asked reasonably.

“Fuck no!” The guy, Patrick, crowed, gesturing over Pete's shoulder. “See? Mikeyway knows where it's at! Wanna tell him not to get _his_ drink on? Say no to that face!”

Gerard whirled around and, to his horror, was met by Mikey, who had snatched Hat Guy's handle and was flat-out chugging it. Holy fuck. Like, Gerard understood that this was a _thing_ Mikey did, but he was just downing it like it was fucking tap water. He was going to throw up on Pete's couch. There was absolutely no question.

Pete turned at the exact same moment, barked “Mikey! No!” and Mikey stopped mid-swig, removed the rim from his lips. It was at least a quarter of the way empty already. Holy _fuck_. “Mikey Way, put that shit down,” he said. He turned back to Patrick. “We're having, like, some important family bonding shit here, okay? It'd be super fucking great if you guys could like, leave.”

“Lighten up,” said Patrick, and he just barreled right over him, sprawled across the couch. The other guys followed suit, and then everything was loud and confusing and Gerard had a beer in his hand, somehow, thankfully not Pabst, and Skinny Jeans was pleasantly informing him that if he didn't drink it, he was a total pussy. “Family bonding's easier smashed,” Patrick said sagely, and Gerard realized that Team Sober was no longer in charge of the situation.

“I'm not _saying_ you have to chug it. Just _drink_ it,” said Skinny Jeans, getting – and pardon the language – all up in Gerard's grill.

“No thanks,” he said tersely, shoving the drink back in the guy's hand, spilling most of it in the process. He scanned the room for Mikey. He wasn't very difficult to find, considering there were only, what, ten people there? Eleven? The problem was that those eleven people were crammed into a space built to fit no more than three, and actually _reaching_ Mikey was a different story entirely. He elbowed his way past Frank, who seemed just as confused as him but was tentatively sipping a Pabst anyway, apparently taking full advantage of his lack of supervision, and he shoved Hat Guy into a wall just for the hell of it, writing it off as an accident.

“Sorry, dude!” And then he found Mikey squished between the back of the couch and the wall, from the looks of it, hiding. He was skinnier, maybe. He'd been so skinny to begin with that it was hard to tell, but Gerard was pretty sure he'd lost some weight, and in Mikey's case, that was bad. Was he eating? Gerard suddenly realized that he prepared eighty percent of Mikey's meals at home, even if 'preparation' only involved microwaving shit (or pouring shit in a bowl, pouring shit in a cup, bringing Mikey pre-packaged cans and bags of shit, _occasionally_ heating shit up on the stove). It was very likely that Mikey had just forgotten to eat without him. Fuck, Gerard was lucky he wasn't dead. Why the fuck had he left again?

“Mikes!” Gerard said, trying to get his attention. Mikey turned to him, ubiquitous beanie off-kilter, looking for all the world like a lost puppy, if puppies drank Pabst and had poor eyesight. Why the fuck was he drinking Pabst? Mikey didn't even _like_ beer.

“Mikey!” He said again, finally reaching him, stopping a foot away. What he really wanted to do was hug him and maybe never let go, but Mikey didn't look ready for that: in fact, he looked fragile, nervous, downright terrified. He finished his beer and set the can down on the floor, eyes frantically scanning the room for more. For some reason, that pissed Gerard off. As he was reaching for the counter, Gerard grabbed his wrist, maybe a little harder than strictly necessary. He didn't even think about doing it: one second his hands were in his pockets and the next he was holding Mikey's wrist hard enough to feel the bones grinding together. He was suddenly acutely aware of his brother's incredible frailty.

Mikey's eyes widened but he didn't say anything, very deer-in-the-headlights, and Gerard felt compelled to speak for him.

“What, can't face me sober?”

His face paled visibly. Ouch, maybe that had been a little harsh, but in his defense, it wasn't fucking _fair_ that Mikey could do this drunk – or could at least attempt to get drunk in the five minutes between the door and the inevitable confrontation – and Gerard had to do it mostly functional. Worse than mostly functional: with a headache and a stomachache and at goddamn half-mast already, because – why? Just from Mikey's sheer _presence_ after so long, or – and he didn't particularly want to admit this, even to himself – from the feel of his slender wrist in Gerard's hand, the knowledge that he could snap it easily if he really wanted to. The fear in Mikey's eyes.

And Mikey didn't fucking say anything, but he was back to scanning the room, even lifting up onto his toes to see over heads and hoodie-hat combos. What the fuck was he looking for, somebody to rescue him? Because Gerard didn't see any goddamn guardian angels sitting on the arm of the couch, only Ray, shooting them occasional furtive glances, Pete, trapped in the corner and talking to Patrick and the little kid. Frank, crawling on the floor for some reason? Sliding through peoples' legs in search of, Gerard assumed, either beer or company, and that was admittedly kind of confusing. Gerard let it slide, though, because he had more important problems at hand, and he couldn't be expected to keep track of the whole band all the time. Especially not Frank. Really, Frank was the only one capable of keeping up with Frank, and even he wasn't very good at it.

Gerard was currently busy trying to keep up with Mikey, though that wasn't going too well: without notice, Mikey managed to wriggle out of his grip and bodily shove himself further behind the couch. He tried and failed to roll over it and onto the cushions.

“Mikey, fucking talk to me!” Gerard said, only closing him in further. Realizing that was once again a bit abrasive, he tried to backtrack: “I mean, I came back to apologize. Fuck, Mikes, I would have done it sooner if I could. I swear to God, I wanted to come back the _second_ I left, but I got so caught up in this thing – I was so terrified I was going to hurt you--” and if he wasn't mistaken, Mikey actually whimpered when he said this. It was hard to tell over the noise. “No, but it's okay now,” he insisted. “We're okay. Mikey, I have this under control now, I swear. We're going to be okay.”

But Mikey wasn't fucking _listening_ to him, just craning his neck and looking for a way out. Gerard kept trying.

“Do you remember all that stuff about finding myself? That's bullshit. All of it. Mikey, I didn't find myself because I didn't need to fucking _find_ myself. My fucking sketchpad got stolen, and you know what? I'm okay,” he said, all in one breath. “Because it's not about _me_ , Mikey, and I know I've always thought differently – I _know_ I'm a self-centered asshole! And I didn't have any kind of fucking artistic revelation while I was gone, but I realized that it's not fucking _about_ me! It's about you, Mikey. It's always been about you.” It was poetic, fucking gorgeous, and his brother wasn't even _listening_ to him, just looking around the room and trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Mikey,” he all but begged, like calling his name was going to help. That was the definition of insanity, wasn't it? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. “Mikey,” he said again, because he was okay with being insane. And he was almost crying, so fucking frustrated that he thought he might just curl up and die right then and there. Mikey finally looked at him but remained silent, biting his lip. The split was almost invisible now. Gerard felt like mourning.

Around them, the impromptu party raged on, everyone capable of helping him boxed in by drunken idiots, but Gerard's field of vision was shrinking by the second. Just Mikey, only Mikey, because that was how it had been before he left. How it should be, the two of them, nobody to interfere and no fucking inner turmoil to pull them apart, but Mikey was just fucking _staring_ at him, pale and thin and barely there, white skin marred only by the choker or whatever around his neck. Gerard wanted to rip it off.

What he did next was a product of desperation and blind anger, not at Mikey for ignoring him but rather at himself for expecting a different reaction in the first place. At his stupid libido and his stupid insecurity and his _stupid fucking soul quest_ \--

Gerard grabbed Mikey by the neck, wheeled him around and slammed him into the wall, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Recoil shot up to his shoulder but he didn't care, just braced a forearm against Mikey's chest and pressed their bodies together, pressed their foreheads together so that Gerard could look into his brother's eyes, broken and confused and hurt, so that Mikey's shallow, barely-there breaths could mingle with Gerard's heavy panting, their combined greasy hair curtaining their faces. Mikey's glasses pressing uncomfortably into the bridge of Gerard's nose.

“Fucking _say_ something,” he hissed. Tried to hiss, to be assertive, but was so close to tears that his voice cracked pathetically. “ _Say something!_ ”

Mikey didn't say anything.

Gerard kissed him, violently, smashing their mouths together in clash of teeth and lips. Mikey didn't open for him but Gerard didn't care, shoved his tongue in his brother's mouth anyway, a last resort. Anything to break him out of this fucking _trance_ , and it was just like their first time. Harder, angrier, but Mikey was still confused and scared and unresponsive and Gerard was still pissed off at the world, himself, his brother. And Mikey didn't _move_ , so Gerard bit down hard on his lower lip.

That finally got to him, and for a second, Gerard thought he was kissing back, and then realized his error. He was breaking free. Mikey shoved him off, fucking hard, with all the strength in his frail little body, pushing him into the crowd.

Suddenly, his tunnel vision expanded. Too far: he would have rather stayed oblivious. The room was completely silent, a rough circle having formed around him, everyone staring wide eyed. There was Ray, shrunk back into Bob's arms, and Frank, craning to see over Skinny Jeans. Pete and Patrick in the corner, frozen. And Mikey, towering above him, fists clenched and eyes dark. _Vengeful._

Somebody, Patrick from the sound of it, yelled out from the corner: “Isn't he your brother?” And then all hell broke loose.

Mikey punched him square in the jaw.

Gerard went careening backwards, smashed shoulder-first into Hat Guy and tumbled to the ground, catching himself with his hands. Pain shot up his right arm, but he ignored it.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?” Mikey yelled, voice cracking on the 'fuck'. “Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?”

“Mikey, I'm sorry--” Gerard began, trying to scramble to his feet, but Mikey cut him off by kicking his legs out from under him.

“Shut the fuck up. Don't fucking _talk_ to me about _remorse_ , you fucking _cocksucker_.” He was so angry that he was shaking, legs splayed and toes turned inward just to keep himself upright. Nobody moved except Gerard, who managed to stand up after some effort.

“You think _you're_ sorry?” Mikey continued, getting in his face, shoving him back lightly. Instigating, but Gerard wasn't going to hit him. Wasn't going to fall for it. “I have spent every _second_ since you left feeling fucking _remorseful._ ”

Gerard's heart sank. For kissing back? For letting him have his way?

“For not going _after_ your stupid ass,” Mikey said, answering his unspoken question. “For whatever I did that made you want to fucking _abandon_ me!” His voice cracked again, tears welling up in his eyes, and Gerard felt like the lowest piece of shit on the planet. And nobody helped; nobody tried to stop them.

Unfortunately for him, Mikey’s were angry tears. “And I don't _care_ if you hurt me, okay Gerard? I don't fucking care if you want to make me bleed. Just don't _leave_ after!” He punched Gerard in the stomach. Gerard doubled over in pain, but the blows kept coming, progressively weaker, Gerard doing his best to shield his face. Pain shooting up his spine, Mikey's boot connecting with his face.

“Mikey, stop!”

The voice rung out clear in the stunned silence. Not Gerard, someone else. Somebody finally _doing_ something. Intervening.

“ _Sit_ ,” Pete commanded through clenched teeth, shoving Patrick out of the way to reach the pair of them. To Gerard's amazement, Mikey did stop. He collapsed to his knees like an android on hibernate and hung his head. He only showed signs of life after a few seconds, and even then they were minimal: his heaving shoulders, his trembling. He was crying. Silent, nothing like Gerard's fantasies, because it wasn't dramatic; he wasn't desperate or in pain or acting. Just genuinely miserable.

“Look at him,” Pete said. Forget Mikey's guardian angel; Pete was fucking wrathful. Far worse than Mikey's and Gerard's combined anger was his quiet, intense disappointment, filling the room with a collective embarrassment. Very slowly, Mikey looked up. His face was streaked with tears, glasses askew and hair clinging wetly to his cheeks. Only when he had the chance to study it in fine detail did Gerard see the gauntness in his frame, moreso than he imagined. His eyes were red and puffy, bloodshot, Gerard suspected, from lack of sleep rather than the crying.

“Mikey, apologize to your brother.”

Mikey sighed, a sound from the deepest part of his psyche, radiating out into the room and infecting everyone with his remorse.

“I'm sorry, Gee,” he said quietly, looking him in the eye but not truly seeing, staring past him into some world that only Mikey could see. A world where he didn't have explain because Gerard already understood.

Well fuck that. Gerard _did_ understand, and he wasn't going to humiliate his brother like this.

“Mikey,” he said, voice filled with a newfound resolve. “Mikey, stand up.”

Mikey glanced up, alarmed, at Pete, who nodded. The significance of the exchange was completely lost on Gerard.

Reluctantly, Mikey stood.

“Don't apologize,” Gerard said slowly, trying to convey his meaning in as few words as possible. “I deserved that.”

“You didn't,” said Mikey.

“I did.”

His brother only stared at him, eyes dull.

Ugh, fuck _concision._

“I left because I was scared, Mikes,” he blurted out. “And I came back because I realized how fucking stupid that was. There's no reason to be scared of this. What we have. Because it's fucking _beautiful_ , okay? It's fucking perfect. Just. You and me, we're – I mean, if you've changed your mind while I was gone, that's fine. That's your decision. I'm not going to force you into anything, is what I'm saying, but you have to know that I still want it, if you want to give it to me.”

“Gerard--”

But he wasn't finished. He hastened to say the rest before Mikey cemented his decision. “I know it might be wrong, Mikes. To – society, I guess. But if I'm going to hell I want to hold your hand on the way down.” Damn, that was pretty poetic. Gerard mentally high-fived himself, realized how completely inappropriate that was, and sobered up. Metaphorically, of course, because he was technically already more sober than he would like at the moment. “And Mikey, if you want it gentle, I can do that. I swear I can stop myself now. And if you think we can go back to just being brothers, I swear I'll do that for you. And that's okay with me, honestly. If you want to get drunk and make out and never talk about it, that's fucking _okay_ with me because I just want you back. Whatever you're willing to give. Just – just forgive me.”

Mikey had stopped crying at some point during his impassioned little speech and was now staring at him levelly. Gerard realized belatedly that all eyes were on him, and that he was in a room mostly full of strangers. Strangers and _Bob_ , who didn’t have a clue about Gerard’s relationship with his brother. And Mikey was just _staring_ at him, biting his lip, flushed in a way that could never stem from pleasure, and Gerard had really fucked everything up, hadn’t he?

“Mikey,” he whispered, because that seemed to be the only word he could say under stress.

To his immense relief, his brother didn’t freeze up again, but replied, short and simple. “Gerard.”

They simultaneously took a step toward one another, a product of that weird little telepathy thing, Gerard hoped. Hoped that their emotions were back in sync, hoped he hadn’t ruined that too when he left.

The room held its breath collectively, nobody moving, either in shock, enjoying the show, or in possession of enough common sense not to interrupt them. Gerard stepped forward. Mikey followed suit, until they were close enough that his breath blew Gerard’s hair out of his face, tickling it against his cheek. The room was suddenly very cold, like Gerard had stepped into ice water: the sensation started in his toes and soaked up through his body, liquid nitrogen pooling in his stomach and freezing his hands in place. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch Mikey, wipe the tear-trails from his cheek or fix his glasses, but he couldn’t move. And Mikey was warm, so warm, his breath and the han, suddenly on Gerard’s face and the heat radiating off him, pure energy, control. The power to completely change the course of Gerard’s life with a single word.

“Gerard,” he said again, quiet in the space between their bodies yet deafening in the silent room. And Gerard waited for him to finish the sentence, to say something of value, to end this fucking tension--

Mikey kissed Gerard, incredibly soft, just barely brushing their lips together, and though the room was full of witnesses, Gerard felt as if maybe it wasn’t really happening, because he had never even imagined a connection this intense, like he and Mikey had become the same person, consciousnesses entwined where their lips touched. Gerard was simply fucking _dazzled_ , and the moment seemed to last forever, the sensation ingrained permanently into his mind.

When they broke apart, the world retained that crystalline feeling, like being underwater, like being high and warm and happy, and Mikey never deepened the kiss. He just pulled away, looked Gerard square in the eye -- all pain gone, all confusion gone -- and said:

“Of course I forgive you.”

They kissed again, briefly. And again. And again, and then Mikey was on top of Gerard and Gerard was cupping his face, kissing back like a drowning man given oxygen, like Mikey was his _lifeline_. For once in his goddamn life, everything was exactly as it should be: Mikey mouthing against his lips, hands in his hair, grinding down against him.

Clapping.

Somebody was clapping. Frank. He could tell, because the sound was immediately followed by a very Frank-like yelp of pain, and Gerard pictured someone elbowing him in the ribs. “Shut up,” Ray hissed. And nobody shut up, rather, the small crowd did the exact opposite. The room was suddenly full of whispering which eventually evolved into straight-out talking:

“Dude, Gerard? Um.”

“ _Pda_ , you guys. Jesus.”

“Wait, aren't they brothers?”

“Shut the fuck up, Patrick.”

“Yeah, but they're _brothers_ , right?”

Mikey and Gerard ignored the commotion, the shifting in the room, too lost in each other. Then there was another pair of hands around Gerard's waist, a... foot on his shoulder? The kiss ended only when somebody forcefully lifted Mikey off of him, and the look on his face was priceless: simultaneously apathetic and incredibly confused. Then someone helped Gerard to his feet – when had they even made it to the ground? – and he slowly regained enough mental clarity to feel self-conscious. Suffice to say there was a lot of staring.

Frank had his hands around Gerard's waist, Pete around Mikey's, holding them back. Mikey, across from him, also staring, was flushed, mouth red and puffy. And – was that blood? Fuck, was Mikey bleeding?

Gerard twisted around to face Frank. “Is Mikey bleeding?” He demanded, and Frank looked like he was holding back laughter.

“Dude, _you're_ bleeding.”

“Yeah!” The little kid chimed in. “Your nose, man!”

Frank's eyes widened comically. “Is it broken? Do you think it's broken?”

“I don't know,” said Gerard.

There was mild confusion after that; Pete let go of Mikey to examine Gerard's nose, and the rest of the crowd bunched in, everyone trying to get a look. Gerard whined and pressed himself into Frank, hugging him and trying to hide his face.

“Show them, Gee,” Frank was saying, surprisingly calm where Gerard wasn't. “Come on, head up. You're getting blood on my shirt.” And only when he said that did Gerard realize he could taste it, warm and coppery against his palette. He went a bit light-headed after that, realized vaguely that he was hard, pressing into Frank's belly, and thank God it was Frank who had grabbed him. And everything was loud and confusing, bodies crowding against him, _noise_ , Pete's hand on the back of his neck, trying to turn his head, saying:

“Gerard, I need to make sure you're okay--”

And then there was some kind of wet sound and a moment of complete silence. Everybody froze.

There was a resounding chorus of _ewww_ and everyone backed off; Frank pulled him back, leaving a space surrounding Pete, staring at his shoes, and Mikey, bent almost in half and clutching his stomach.

“Sorry,” Mikey said weakly after a moment. Then he crumpled to the floor, thankfully missing Pete's shoes.

There was a long pause, and then Pete sighed. “Boys, I think it's time to put you to bed.”

Frank laughed, and Ray shushed him.

“Gimme a sec to clean up. Patrick, can you--?”

Ray cut him off. “It's fine,” he said, stepping forward, looking tired and grizzled and sort of dead. “Throw out your shoes; I'll tuck these guys in.

After a moment, Pete nodded. “Do you need help?” The little kid asked, high-pitched and confused.

“No, Ryan, Ray’s got it,” said Pete. And then Gerard and Mikey were being steered into another room, one with a bed, and everything was a little quieter and Gerard was a little less dazed.

“Can you get undressed by yourself?” Ray asked, maybe just a bit condescending, and rather than answering, Mikey voiced what they were both thinking:

“We have to get un _dressed_?”

Ray rolled his eyes. “You have vomit on your jeans. Take them off.”

“Oh,” Mikey said lamely, glancing down to ensure that he did indeed have vomit on his jeans. Ray was not lying.

“We're fine,” said Gerard, mostly ready for Ray to leave so he could think clearly again. And Ray eyed them suspiciously, but he nodded and left, shutting the door behind him, and then everything was quiet again, or as quiet as it was going to get with paper-thin walls and a party in full swing just outside the door. Mikey sighed, and then they both went for his fly at the same moment, Gerard's nose bumping up against his brother's hand, probably getting blood on _that_ too. Ugh, he'd forgotten about all the fucking blood.

“Sorry,” said Mikey, and he held his hands up by his head, a gesture of submission. Er, not submission. Whatever. Gerard was _tired_.

“Sorry,” Gerard said, because he was still a little out of it, and Mikey chuckled but didn't comment. Gerard blushed and tugged the jeans down to his bare ankles. “Can you, uh, sit on the bed? Can't get these off.”

Mikey laughed weakly but sat down nonetheless. “Your jeans aren't tight enough until you need your brother's help to get them off, huh? That's my philosophy.”

“Good philosophy,” Gerard said absently, and managed to roll them off after a moment of tugging. “Shirt?” He asked. Without further prompting, Mikey pulled the thing over his head in one swift motion, leaving him naked save briefs and bandages. And his choker. They both seemed to notice it at the same time, as evidenced by Mikey's sudden fidgeting, his obvious self-consciousness. Without asking, Gerard pushed him gently to the bed and straddled him for better access.

Almost reverently, Gerard touched the dark leather. He was now acutely aware that it was not a choker. A D-ring on the front, two small O-rings on the sides, for attaching... what? Restraints? _Tags_? Gerard shuddered at the thought: engraved metal, 'property of Gerard Way. If found, please return to--'

He felt around the back and found another metal piece.

“Mikey, is this--” and he tried to turn it around to see, but it was too tight to move, snugly against the thickest part of his throat. How did his brother breathe in that thing?

“Fuck, Mikes. Roll over,” he said, and climbed off without waiting for an answer, grabbed Mikey's shoulder and twisted him halfway over to get a good look. Mikey winced slightly in pain, but otherwise allowed himself to be manhandled. Gerard held him like that, hips facing away and chest flush against the bed, for a long moment, just looking. The clasp was silver in color, about three quarters of an inch wide, with a bend-back snap, and two little rings. Through the rings was threaded a tiny, silver padlock.

“Oh Mikes,” Gerard breathed, suddenly at a loss for words. After a moment he released his brother's shoulder and let Mikey roll onto his back once more, sit up and rest his chin on his knees, curled protectively in on himself. He made eye contact, though, and Gerard gave him credit for that.

Gerard carefully shifted to sit beside him, pressing their shoulders together lightly. “Did you--” he swallowed, and considered the best way to word this. “Who -- who has the key?” He asked quietly.

Mikey squinted at him over his glasses, thinking. Not that it was a hard question; Gerard assumed he was debating whether or not to tell the truth.

“Pete,” he said finally.

He didn't want to admit it, but that was the name Gerard had been expecting. Mikey seemed to look to Pete for guidance, even in the few small interactions Gerard had witnessed, and that honestly explained a lot. The guardian angel theory suddenly seemed to hold water. And fuck, Mikey had been sitting at his _feet_ when Gerard first saw him, hadn't he?

Gerard was trying to choose his words carefully, but it was becoming more difficult by the second. “W -- what _are_ you two?” He mentally smacked himself. “I mean, what does the collar mean?”

And Mikey almost looked sad in answering: “That I'm his,” he said quietly, no stuttering, no hesitation.

“You're his.”

Mikey didn't elaborate, just nodded.

“Damn,” said Gerard. “Just. So what, you guys have been...?”

Mikey rolled his eyes. “You don't have to beat around the bush, Gee. He's been fucking me. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks and he has you _collared_?”

“Fuck you,” Mikey said, like this was an assault to his pride. “He's taking _care_ of me.” And then, quiet, less convicted: “I've been a fucking wreck without you.”

They were both silent. Gerard hadn't even considered that it might be an emotional thing, especially not something that was his _fault_ , but that too made sense. Fuck, Gerard was such an asshole.

“The first week, I had -- I had a lot of sex, Gee,” he admitted. Gerard furrowed his eyebrows. “Indiscriminate. With guys that, uh. Looked like you.” And okay, that was weird. Were Gerard not so madly in... whatever, with his brother, he would be pretty damn freaked out right about now. That was bordering on obsessive.

“That doesn't sound healthy.”

Mikey didn't deny anything, just looked down to where he was working the rip in his knee with two deft fingers, widening it. “I fucked Ryan,” he blurted out after a moment.

Gerard's eyes widened. “The little kid?”

“He's not a kid,” said Mikey through gritted teeth. “He's eigh _teen._ ”

“Is that what he told you?”

“ _Gerard_!” He said, looking up.

“I'm sorry!” Gerard threw his hands up in defense. “I just don't want anyone to think you're a pedophile or anything.”

Mikey huffed. “I told you I was in a bad place.”

There was a long, awkward silence.


	15. Chapter 15

“Yeah, well. I fucked Ray,” Gerard said, because literally anything was better than not talking.

“Who's Ray?” Mikey asked, apathetic.

“The guy with the afro. Well,” and Gerard pulled a face. “I didn't really fuck him per se. I, uh, gave him a handjob. And I guess he didn't really _want_ a handjob, but I was -- I was going through, uh, withdrawal? Because I didn't have my pills. And I was hallucinating. And I, um. I thought he was you.”

Yes, that actually _relieved_ the awkwardness.

Mikey seemed to perk up. It was subtle, barely a facial twitch, but Gerard caught it, and it just made him ridiculously happy that he could still catch these things. “You mean you're clean?” Mikey asked.

Gerard fidgeted. “Well, I wasn't ever--”

“If you go through withdrawal when you quit, it means you were addicted,” Mikey said. Pause. “But that doesn't matter. I'm glad you're off them.”

“I’m mostly off them. I mean, I’m reducing my dosage. I’m almost there. But forget the drugs, Mikes, that's not all,” Gerard said, because apparently he couldn't accept praise without providing reason to withdraw it. “I met this guy while I was gone.”

Mikey sobered immediately.

“The short one, with his head half shaved? His name is Frank.”

“And you and him have been...?” Mikey asked tentatively.

Gerard took a deep breath, preparing to reveal this. He wasn't sure if he was ready, not really, but then again he would probably never say it if he waited until he was ready. “More than that,” Gerard said. “I-- I think. I'm in love with him.” He continued before Mikey could speak. “But here's the thing! Mikey – no, Mikes, listen to me – _Mikey_ \--” and Mikey was looking away again, angry tears welling up in his eyes. Gerard grabbed his brother's hand in both of his and silently begged. “Mikey – and please believe me when I say this – I'm in love with you too.”

“You're in love with me,” he repeated dryly. “Gerard, I don't think you understand what love is.”

“Mikey--”

“ _Gerard_. If you think you're in love with me, you must be sorely confused.” He stood up abruptly and turned to where his brother sat on the foot of the bed.

“What do you mean I'm confused, Mikes – how could you say that?”

To his astonishment, Mikey raised his voice. Uncontrolled. Dangerous. “If you were in _love_ with me, you wouldn't have even _considered_ leaving.”

“You're not listening--”

“ _You're_ not listening!” Mikey gritted out, and then he relaxed his face with some effort and laughed bitterly. “Fuck, Gee. You're in _lust_ with me. Just – tell me you want to fuck me, okay? Tell me you want to tie me up and make me _bleed_ , make me cry, fucking _humiliate_ me – you can fucking abuse me all you like, _Gerard_.” His voice cracked but no tears came. “Just don't fucking _tell_ me that you _love_ me!”

Gerard stood up, then, legitimately angry for the first time since he'd arrived. He hadn't been mad when Mikey wouldn't talk to him, when Mikey hit him and fucking kicked him while he was down--

“You want me to fucking lie?”

– but how _dare_ he dismiss Gerard's affections.

They stood silent save their combined heavy breathing, and Mikey's body slowly untensed. Gerard remained in a state of mild shock.

Finally, once the indignation had drained out of both their systems, Mikey spoke.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said.

Slowly, Gerard raised his hand and dabbed at his upper lip, and sure enough, it came away a sticky red. He had assumed it had stopped, and his mouth was already so saturated with iron from the countless cuts, cheeks to teeth, that he hadn't noticed the steady trickle down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard said, for lack of anything more eloquent.

Mikey snorted. “Why the hell are _you_ sorry? I’m the one who kicked you in the face.”

“Did you kick me in the face?” Gerard asked, genuinely curious. “I don’t remember.” And his brother shrugged.

“Probably.” A pause, then: “Do you think it’s broken?”

“It doesn’t feel broken,” said Gerard. He ran a finger from bridge to tip in search of some sort of anomaly and, finding none, pinched it in an attempt to stop the bleeding. This only resulted in an uncomfortable pressure, and then a lot more blood. He let go. “I don’t know,” he said, “I think I’d be able to tell if it was broken.”

At almost the same moment, they both sat down on the foot of the bed. Completely in sync, Gerard was convinced of it. His eyes were drawn to Mikey’s nearly-naked body, eager to take in the sight after so long apart. It wasn’t like Mikey’s body was anything new -- long limbs, awkward knees, defined ribcage same as ever -- but this still felt like the first time looking rather than just seeing.

He was pale. Gerard had been mulling this fact over since he first laid eyes on his brother’s pasty skin less than an hour ago, but it seemed notable on some fundamental level. It meant that Mikey hadn’t gone outside much, if at all, while Gerard was away, because had he set foot outside his front door, he would be undoubtedly blessed with the famous half-Italian tan, thank you Way family. This in combination with blossoming revelations concerning the collar took Gerard’s mind to dark places: what had his brother been doing indoors this whole time? One would naturally assume he was keeping himself busy with Zelda marathons or something, because it wasn’t like he went outside much _anyway_ , but Gerard couldn’t force himself to believe that. Mikey said himself that he was having a lot of sex. Who’s to say it wasn’t mostly with Pete? Who’s to say he didn’t spend two weeks of his life tied to Pete’s bed? Bent over the kitchen counter? Under the table, begging for scraps?

Gerard shuddered and reminded himself that the collar did not necessarily imply any of those things. He still couldn’t get the image of Mikey on all fours out of his head.

Only then did Gerard take in the rest of his brother, and the rest of him _was_ quite nice, chiseled jaw and slender, feminine hands. Maybe he wasn’t thinner. Maybe it was Gerard’s imagination; maybe he had always been this thin and Gerard had just never noticed because he never really took the time to look at him. Sure, that was a bit contradictory with all the supposed tension between them prior to his little adventure, but it felt like maybe Gerard was only in love with the _concept_ of his brother before he left. Now he was back, and he was pretty sure he was in love with the whole package, no pun intended.

And fuck -- he mentally berated himself, because that only got him staring at Mikey’s _packagehis_ , and the thought of Pete’s hands on him, cleaning up the mess Gerard had left behind in every sense of the word, made him sick to his stomach. Or maybe that was the blood he was swallowing in mouthfuls. And if he died of blood loss and/or asphyxiation during the night, oh well. No big deal.

With a heavy sigh, Gerard fell backwards and curled up on his side, knees to chest. He was suddenly completely exhausted.

“Mikey?” He asked, feeling the shift in the mattress as his brother laid down beside him, a few inches away.

“Yeah, Gee?” Mikey said.

“Can I blow you?”

He didn’t really know why he asked or why he even felt the urge, when he was having trouble keeping his eyes open and might very well die quietly in a few minutes -- he was very convicted of this notion -- but Mikey took it in stride, and somehow that felt good. Just, good. Regardless of his response.

“No,” said Mikey.

“Okay,” said Gerard, and it _was_ okay, because they were being honest with each other now, and Mikey was next to him, their hands barely brushing, and that was how things were supposed to be.

Gerard thought for a moment, and then asked: “Can you hold me?”

Mikey thought about it too. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and he took off his glasses and set them on the bedside table, grabbed Gerard around the middle, and pulled him into his chest.

They lay like that for awhile -- Gerard wasn’t really sure how long, but he thought he might have drifted off for a few seconds -- and then Mikey spoke.

“We’re going to work this out, Gee,” he said, nuzzling into Gerard’s hair. Gerard couldn’t smell the blood or the vomit anymore, and he couldn’t really feel the bruises forming on his sides. He felt Mikey’s hot breath against his neck, and that was nice. “We’re going to be okay.”

Gerard hummed.

“We’ll work it out,” Mikey said again, but Gerard was already asleep.

~

An hour later, they were still the only ones sleeping.

“Pete, your parties are gay,” said Gabe, adjusting his baseball cap and huffing. He’d started sulking in the corner with Bob and Patrick at approximately the same time Ryan and Brendon started tongue-fucking on the couch.

Pete shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m gay. My friends are gay. Their friends are gay.”

“Yeah, but these are _my_ friends!” Patrick whined.

“It’s your party, too,” said Pete.

Unable to argue with that logic in his current state, Patrick scowled and reached for another beer, coming back empty-handed. He groaned pathetically.

“All gone,” Pete smirked. “Thank Ray for that one.”

“Who the fuck is Ray?” Asked Gabe.

“Ray!” Bob called across the room, startling most everyone, considering it was basically the first thing he’d said all night. A mass of curly brown hair came flouncing toward the four of them, more than a little tipsy.

“Hey,” Ray grinned.

“This is Ray,” Bob said. “He drank all the beer.”

Ray nodded, then thought better of it and furrowed his eyebrows. “I did?”

“You did,” Bob confirmed.

“Oh, sorry,” said Ray. And then: “I like beer.”

“I know,” said Bob.

Gabe and Patrick just sort of stared at them unhappily. Ray didn’t seem to notice, just smiled brilliantly at Bob, flashing pearly white teeth. His hair bounced happily, and then, without warning, he grabbed Bob’s hands and attempted to drag him away from the wall.

“What are you doing?” Bob asked.

“Come to the kitchen with me!” Said Ray. “I wanna hang out.”

“You can’t hang out over here?”

“No,” he said, and Bob shrugged and allowed himself to be dragged out of view. He was feeling more than complacent at the moment, and okay, he had lied a little about the beer: Ray finished it off, yeah, but Bob had helped quite a bit.

When they were hidden safely off screen, Ray crowded Bob up against the counter none too gently, giggling and squeezing Bob’s thighs between his own, grabbing the faux marble counter top for balance.

“Hey Bob,” he whispered, right up against Bob’s ear, like what he was going to say next was some sort of secret.

“Yeah?” Bob asked, going along with it.

“Wanna make out?”

“Sorry,” Bob said, trying to shuffle away and, failing that, lifting himself up onto the counter to put some distance between them. “I don’t like guys.”

“But it’s not gay,” Ray insisted earnestly. “We’re just kissing.”

“Boys kissing boys is gay,” said Bob, but he wasn’t very convicted. Honestly, everybody else was making out, and he felt a little left out.

“Nah,” said Ray, hair bouncing up and down as he shook his head. “It’ll be cool. Just kissing, okay? No gay stuff.”

“No gay stuff,” Bob tentatively confirmed. “Okay. Just for a little bit.”

“Cool,” said Ray.

“Cool,” said Bob.

Then they kissed, just for a little bit, and it wasn’t really _that_ gay. It was kind of nice, actually, Ray’s hair tickling Bob’s ears and Bob’s beard scratching against Ray’s face. It was rather controlled, too, especially considering Ray’s current state of intoxication. Not sloppy, not a lot of spit, just a little bit of tongue. Ray sucked Bob’s lip ring into his mouth and Bob moaned despite himself and wrapped his arms around Ray’s torso. He slid off the counter accidentally, ending the kiss, but quickly re-attached himself to Ray’s mouth.

Kissing guys wasn’t so bad, Bob thought. Ray was a lot more confident than any girl he’d ever kissed, but he was also sweet and gentle. It didn’t really feel like kissing, honestly -- well, it _did_ , but emotionally, it was more akin to a high-five, or Ray helping Bob set up his kit. Just like, male bonding. Male bonding with tongue, and Ray’s large hands on the small of Bob’s back. Plus, three fifths of the band were basically gay. Maybe it was okay for Ray and Bob to do this, as long as they didn’t tell anyone. And Ray wouldn’t tell anyone. Bob trusted him.

They broke apart breathless, Ray’s eyes sparkling.

“That was nice,” said Bob. “I don’t like guys, though.”

“Me neither,” said Ray. “We can do that again, if you ever want to. Or not, whatever.”

“Okay,” Bob nodded.

~

It seemed like every time Gerard woke up, life in general was worse than it had been before he fell asleep. This wasn’t a particularly bad case, but he counted it as an example nonetheless: he woke up with a pretty bad hangover, for one. This was momentarily confusing considering he hadn’t even drunk anything at the party, but then he remembered how he had already been leaning on Ray on his way out of the bar the previous evening. Right, so he had a splitting headache -- literally splitting, like somebody was driving an ice pick through his skull -- and the pain was making him a little nauseous. On top of that, everything was covered in blood.

He had apparently drooled (blood) onto Mikey’s chest at some point during the night, rolled over, pressed his face into the pillow (leaving red, sticky stains on the mostly-white linen) and then somehow bent into a pretzel shape and wiped blood on... his own thighs? Gerard wasn’t quite sure about that last part. He was _extremely_ sure that he needed a shower. Therein lie his second problem: there was somebody curled up on his chest, and that somebody wasn’t Mikey.

Gerard smiled. Okay, maybe not a huge problem. “Hey, little dude,” he whispered, curling a hand in what was left of Frank’s hair. Frank didn’t respond, choosing instead to remain an adorable dead weight. “Frankie,” Gerard sing-songed, drawing out the word. Frank shifted a little so he was lying flush against Gerard’s chest and then looked up at him with huge, glassy eyes. He really did look young with his new haircut, even though mohawk comb-overs weren’t generally associated with little kids. Maybe young was the wrong word -- honestly, Gerard thought it made him look _smaller_. He didn’t mention that for fear of another bloody nose.

“Hey,” said Frank, his usual groggy self with a side helping of alcohol consumption. Gerard gave him points for even opening his eyes.

“Hey,” Gerard repeated. He smiled. “You’ve got blood in your hair.” Why that made him smile, Gerard wasn’t really sure, but something about it was just cute. There was a smear just under his cheekbone from when he’d obviously pressed his cheek to Gerard’s, and without thinking, Gerard licked his thumb and wiped it off.

Frank pulled a face. “You have blood on your everything.”

It belatedly occurred to Gerard that he probably should have made a better attempt to stop the bleeding before he went to sleep, or at least gotten somebody to help who actually knew what they were doing. Everyone seemed to forget about Gerard’s nose after Mikey barfed on Pete, which seemed just a little irresponsible, but then again, Gerard was a big boy. He should be able to take care of himself. The fact that it hadn’t really worked out so far should only encourage him to try harder.

Gerard was also oddly content, covered in blood and cuddling with Frank and his brother. This was like, his twisted version of a wedding night or something -- his ideal, romantic night, and he couldn’t help but picture Mikey in a wedding gown and snicker. Gerard could only imagine how awkwardly he’d walk the aisle, bow-legged and uncomfortable in his own skin, beautiful _because_ of that. A wedding dress would look much better blood-stained than his briefs and bare skin. What could he say, Gerard had always been big on ceremony.

“We’ve gotta consummate our marriage,” Gerard mumbled.

Frank snorted. “What?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

He smiled faintly. “I mean, I’ve gotta take a shower. Get off.” Gently -- because Frank was a little hung over, and Gerard understood how much that sucked -- he rolled Frank off of him and partially onto Mikey, who didn’t even stir.

“Kay,” Frank said, curling naturally into Mikey. To his amazement, Mikey curled right back and even slung an arm around Frank’s waist. Gerard was bemused by the absurdity of it all: his brother spooning his boyfriend in his brother’s boyfriend’s bed. And his brother was... also sort of his boyfriend? Gerard’s life was confusing, okay, and he really just needed a fucking shower.

There were people passed out in various states of undress all over the apartment. Hat Douche and Huge Jeans Dude had apparently left already, but Skinny Jeans was on top of Ryan on the couch, pants around his knees, and Ryan's hair resembled a nuclear explosion. Patrick was slumped in an armchair, a hat that Gerard didn't recognize pulled down over his eyes. Bob and Ray were – incredibly – sitting up, propped against the couch, asleep next to each other. Not touching. The whole place was littered with junk. The bathroom was on the opposite side of the apartment.

Gingerly, Gerard stepped over Bob's and Ray's legs, made it mostly into the kitchen, and then slammed face-first into Pete.

“Ow, fuck!” Gerard said, and then realized that everyone else was asleep. “Ow, fuck,” he repeated in a whisper.

“Sorry,” said Pete. He was barefoot now, because changing shoes was apparently too much trouble, but thankfully still clothed. He had sex hair, but that probably had more to do with sleeping in odd positions than it did with actual sex.

“It's okay,” said Gerard. “I was trying to find the shower.”

Suddenly, Pete's face lit up in realization. “Wait, wait, dude. Can you do something first?” He asked.

Gerard scrunched up his face. On one hand, he really wanted a shower, like, yesterday, and he also had little to no desire to talk to Pete about anything. On the other, Pete seemed pretty damn serious about whatever this was. Gerard sighed. “What do you want?”

“Can we go find Mikey again? I need to give you something.” Pete said.

That didn't really make a whole lot of sense. “Can't you just give it to me here?”

Pete pouted. Gerard rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said, and allowed Pete to drag him back through the minefield that was Pete's apartment.

Mikey and Frank were exactly as Gerard had left them, except now Mikey was the little spoon. Pete raised an eyebrow in Gerard's direction but didn't comment. Instead, he padded over to Mikey and placed a hand on his good shoulder.

“Wake up,” Pete said, no longer whispering.

Mikey cracked an eye and immediately groaned, clutched his head in his hands and rolled over to bury his face in Frank's... face. Patiently, Pete rolled him back. All the while, Gerard stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching all these people who had either fucked, were fucking, or had basically fucked by association, and he pondered the absurdity of his life. His fucking _life_.

“Hi,” Mikey said weakly. “What do you want?

Pete didn't reply, but motioned for Gerard to come closer. Reluctantly, he obliged, taking a few steps toward the bed until he could see Mikey's glassy eyes and the dry, flaking blood on his chest.

“Sorry I ruined your bed,” Gerard said absently, glancing at Pete. He was kind of sorry, sort of, if only because he knew that bleaching fake bloodstains out of white sheets was basically impossible, so the real thing had to be even worse. See, he had done this photography project for Art his senior year--

“It's okay,” said Pete, glare indicating that it really wasn't okay but he understood that it really wasn't Gerard's fault, either. Pete turned back to Mikey. “Sit up,” he ordered, voice cool but imposing. Gerard was pretty impressed, honestly, especially considering it was morning and the light streaming through the blinds was basically stabbing their eyes out.

Mikey sat up without hesitation, but Pete had to grab his shoulder to keep him from falling right back down again due to vertigo.

“Thank you,” Mikey mumbled.

“Mmhm,” said Pete. “Now, out of bed. Gerard, you can come here. Stand – yeah, there is good.” And so Gerard ended up a few feet from the bed, standing in the middle of the floor, confused and uncomfortable. “Mikey,” Pete said again. “Kneel in front of your brother.”

Gerard's breath caught in his throat.

Nobody moved for a moment, and then Mikey rolled out of bed, not saying a word, and stepped forward to stand face-to-face with Gerard, looking him in the eye. Gerard fully expected to see confusion there, hurt or insecurity, but to his amazement saw nothing of the sort. Rather, Mikey's eyes were full of something warm but unidentifiable. Peace, Gerard thought. He seemed content.

“Kneel, Mikey,” Pete said again, more sternly this time. Not taking his eyes off Gerard, Mikey slowly sunk to his knees. “Good,” Pete crooned, and he stepped forward to ruffle Mikey's already-ruffled hair some more. He looked to Gerard.

“What are you--” Gerard began, but sort of petered off on his own, unsure of what he wanted to ask. What was Pete doing? Gerard had a feeling he'd find out in a few seconds.

“I told you I have something for you,” Pete said. Gerard watched him brush hair out of his eyes and was reminded of himself, just a bit, tucking it behind his ears when he was drawing. Pete was in his zone, Gerard realized. He was an artist, and this was his medium of choice. Gerard could appreciate that. “You don't have to take it if you don't want,” he said. With that, he reached under the collar of his own shirt. Gerard was confused for a split second before he pulled out a silver chain, unclasped the back and coiled it in his cupped palm. He held it out for Gerard to examine. Gerard took it and dangled it in front of his face: there was a tiny, silver pendant on the end. His heart stuttered.

“Do you want it?” Pete asked calmly.

Gerard wasn't quite sure how to answer that. He wanted it, he really did, wanted it so badly it _hurt_ , but he wasn't sure – wasn't sure if he could. If he was good enough.

“Do I have to...?” he began, hoping Pete understood.

Pete did. “You can do whatever you like with it. Take it off and throw it away if you want to. You're not my replacement.”

“However I want to treat it,” Gerard confirmed. He felt very, very strange using that pronoun, unsure whether or not they were talking about the necklace anymore. Pretty sure they weren't.

Pete nodded.

“Okay,” said Gerard. “I want it.”

“Good,” Pete said simply, and he turned his attention to Mikey. Gerard hadn't forgotten that his brother was there, per se, but he had sort of forgotten that he could hear what they were saying. Pete explained anyway, for Mikey's benefit.

“Mikey,” he said, reaching down to place a hand on top of his head, holding him still. “You know what I gave your brother?”

“Yes,” Mikey said quietly, head bowed.

“Good,” Pete said again. “You understand that I'm giving you away, Mikey.”

“Yes,” said Mikey.

Gerard interjected without really realizing it. “Can you do that?” He asked.

Pete glanced sharply back up at him. “Of course I can give him away. He's my property. Now he's yours.”

Gerard swallowed thickly but didn't say anything.

“Mikey,” Pete said again. “You belong to Gerard now. You're going do everything he tells you from now on.”

Mikey twisted his head backward, then, to look Pete in the eye. The first time Gerard had seen them make eye contact.

“Thank you,” Mikey said, low, just above a whisper. Something happened, like a shift in the atmosphere, and it was just a bit above Gerard's head. Then it was over and all eyes were on him, expectant.

“Um,” Gerard stuttered, unclear as to how he was supposed to clear up the tension.

“What do you want, care instructions?” Pete asked sarcastically. “Just refill his water bowl every night and make sure you walk him. I let him sleep in the bed, but you don't have to.” Below them, Mikey shifted down an inch and fucking, like, _whined_ or something. Gerard absently patted his head.

“Don't complain, he can make you sleep on the floor if he wants to,” Pete said. Gerard glared at him, resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“Ignore Pete, I'm not gonna make you sleep on the floor,” Gerard soothed. “And you can stand up.”

Mikey did stand up, but he stepped off to the side so Pete could be included in the conversation, or something. “What if I want to?” He asked.

Gerard stared. “We'll talk about it,” he said.

Mikey fidgeted, bit his lip. Honestly, he had looked more comfortable on the floor.

“Do you me to leave?” Pete asked at last, looking mildly downtrodden. Gerard nodded, but nobody moved. Mikey and Pete just sort of stared into each other's eyes, Gerard didn't want to say longingly, but there was something happening, and he was once again left out of the transaction. Mikey had blood smeared across his chest; Pete was smiling sadly, and maybe they were made for each other. It was okay. Gerard understood, really.

“You can cry, Mikey,” Gerard said without really noticing, like his mouth was just an extension of his mind. Maybe it was. “It's okay.”

Mikey shook his head. The tears were obvious without his glasses.

“You can kiss him if you want to,” Gerard said.

His brother turned to look at him then, eyes wide and welling up but still not technically crying, and Gerard thought he could see his hands trembling.

“Pete?” Mikey asked.

Pete nodded, _it's okay_ , and Mikey tentatively leaned in to kiss him.

When they broke apart, Pete's cheeks were wet.

Mikey stepped back and so did Pete, putting distance between them, and Gerard waited quietly for Pete to leave.

He made for the door, but then doubled back and, completely unexpected, grabbed Gerard's hair and pulled him in for a kiss of his own. It was closed-mouthed, harsh and unforgiving, no remnant of the tenderness he had shown Mikey. Gerard's teeth against the inside of his lips, Pete wrenching his head back for better access, and when he stepped away they were both panting.

Pete seemed to compose himself but didn't apologize. “Take good care of him,” he mumbled instead, and left.

Mikey sighed.

“Fuck,” he said. Gerard nodded.

They both sort of slumped to the floor then, slowly, like melting or something, and Gerard really wanted nothing more than to curl up with his head in Mikey's lap and fall back to sleep.

“I wonder if Frank's awake,” he said instead.

Suddenly, a hand shot up from the bed and waved at him backwards, and Frank's scruffy little head emerged from under the covers. “Present,” he said. “Sorry, I just didn't wanna interrupt.” He sat up fully, stretched like a sated cat rolled out of bed, taking half of the comforter with him. He fell to hands and knees as soon as he was down, because apparently standing up was way too much work, and just sort of crawled over to where they were now sitting. Then he curled up with his head in Mikey's lap.

“Hey!”

Frank looked questioningly up at Gerard, eyes still glazed with the remnants of whatever sleep he managed during the night. “What?”

“Nothing,” Gerard huffed. Then, quietly, “That was my spot.”

Frank snorted but didn't move.

“So, I didn't know you guys were that serious,” he said after a moment, partially muffled by Mikey's thigh. Mikey quirked an eyebrow in Gerard's direction but otherwise didn't protest, letting Frank basically nuzzle into his crotch. Gerard didn't stop him either: if he got a barely-clothed boner to the face in a minute, that was his problem.

“What do you mean, serious?” Gerard asked.

“I dunno, about like, your _thing_.” He flailed his hand around vaguely. “I mean, what, are you gonna start calling him your bitch and making him wash the van and carry the amps, or what?”

“Amps?” Mikey asked, at the same time Gerard said:

“ _No_!”

They glanced at each other.

“Er,” said Gerard, “I mean. Did Pete call you that?”

Mikey nodded.

“Oh,” Gerard said lamely. “Well I'll do that kind of thing, like, in the bedroom, if it turns you on, but I don't think relationships are like that in real life. I mean, this isn't a twenty-four seven thing, is it?” And Mikey didn't answer, though that was totally okay, because Gerard wasn't done rambling yet. “I know it sort of was with Pete, but I'm, uh. Like, it's not that I don't think you can handle it; it's that I don't think _I_ can handle it. Because like, a big part of this is that I love you as my brother. You know, we rip on each other and stuff. I don't--” he hesitated, because Mikey looked like he wanted to say something, but he just raised his eyebrows, saying _go on_. “I don't want you to be, uh, like. Submissive all the time, I guess. I hope that's okay.”

He was worried for a moment that Mikey was going to start crying again, but then realized that no, he was projecting. Mikey wasn't the one with what basically amounted to a crying fetish.

Frank still had his face in Mikey's crotch.

“That's okay,” Mikey said at last, and Gerard silently thanked God that he was being genuine. “I guess I miss just being brothers too.”

Gerard smiled, and, because he was in a sappy mood or something, leaned in to kiss Mikey. Their lips pressed together for all of two seconds before Mikey yelped and jerked away, followed by a long, drawn-out groan.

“What? What's wrong?” Gerard asked, panicked. His brother just shook his hand and pointed downward, to where he had been grinding against Frank's head for the good part of the past five minutes. Frank glance up at Gerard and gave him a fucking thumbs up, and he smiled as much as he could, with – well. He had adjusted Mikey's junk at some point, assumedly with his face, and was now licking his half-hard cock through his the thin material of his briefs, from base to head. He paused on the next stroke to lave his tongue across the head, saturate the area with spit and suck it into his mouth. Gerard pulled a face halfway between amused and grossed out. Mikey groaned again and fisted a hand in Frank's hair, and Gerard got the impression that he was unsure whether to encourage him or push him away.

“Frankie!” Gerard barked once he got himself under control again. Frank glanced up again but didn't stop licking. “What the fuck are you doing?” And Frank didn't respond, but hummed against Mikey, eliciting another moan. Mikey tightened his grip in Frank's hair and Frank squeaked indignantly and pulled away.

“Not the hair, motherfucker!” He said.

It was Gerard's turn to be indignant. “It's your fault for trying to suck him off while we're having a serious conversation.”

“Mmgh mmph,” Frank mumbled against Mikey's dick. Mikey's eyes rolled back in his head, if Gerard wasn't mistaken.

“Mikes, pull his hair again!” Gerard ordered, scowling.

Mikey raised his eyebrows, eyes closed now. “So what, I'm just the middleman in your petty feud now?” He panted, but yanked on Frank's hair anyway.

“Ow, fuck!” And Frank shot up again, glaring daggers at Gerard. “Don't fuck with me, Gee. I'll bite him, I swear to God.”

Gerard rolled his eyes even as Mikey cringed at the thought. “Don't fucking bite him,” he said. “Come on, get up,” and he grabbed Frank's hair himself before he could get back down at crotch-level, much to his protest, and yanked him to his feet. Frank stumbled around for a second before Gerard let him go, but Gerard had to grab him again when he tried to get back to his knees. Mikey whined pathetically. “You too, Mikes. We're taking a shower.”

“All of us?” Frank asked, suddenly interested. “Like, as a unit?”

“If we can fit,” Gerard confirmed. “Now come on. And be quiet; everyone's passed out in the living room.”

Frank followed happily, hair forgotten, and Gerard was pretty sure Mikey's lips twitched at some point. Almost a smile. Really damn close.


	16. Chapter 16

Everybody was exactly how Gerard had left them, with the exception of Pete's mysterious disappearance and Bob's hand now on Ray's thigh. Gerard laughed to himself. Bob was going to be so weirded out when he woke up and found that he'd been unintentionally gay in his sleep. They stepped over the sleeping bodies with surprising care, especially from Frank, who somehow managed to refrain from both tripping over and intentionally stepping on peoples' legs. Gerard was proud.

As it turned out, the shower was indeed large enough to fit the three of them, barely: it was one of those shower-tub-combo deals, with a flimsy plastic curtain that did very little to keep water off the linoleum. There was one lightswitch, two options: dark and blinding. Gerard flipped it to the second and cringed when his head pounded.

“Fuck,” Frank said.

Trying his best to stay positive, Gerard clapped his hands twice. “Okay!” He said, syrupy cheer approaching craft show host levels. “Clothes off! Pile in!”

Mikey had one garment on the floor and he was done, leaning against the counter, wiry and unselfconscious, and his boner was like, mega obvious. Maybe Gerard stared a little, but he felt like he was allowed to stare – nay, it was his _obligation_ to stare, considering Mikey was like, his property or whatever. He honestly wasn't too concerned with that: his staring-rights were probably afforded by the sheer fact that they were brothers. And Mikey had a _nice_ dick, okay? Really similar to Gerard's, not as wide around, and this made Gerard wonder if penis size was hereditary. There were dick genes, right? Gerard assumed there were dick genes, because Mikey's dick and Gerard's dick were basically twins. But Gerard's was like, the bigger twin. And it was _awesome_.

Since his mind was already on the subject, Gerard went straight to staring at Frank's dick when he finally whipped that out, and Frank had a pretty great dick too. Not tiny or anything, but pretty proportionate to his size. Kinda cute, if that was even an adjective that could be applied to male genitalia.

“You gonna shower in your clothes, Gee?” Frank asked, hands on his hips. Gerard's eyes snapped to his face.

“Huh? Oh, um, yeah,” he said, blood rushing to his face as he scrambled to get his jeans off. He kicked them off over his socks but got stuck on the shirt, like, trying to stick his head in the arm-hole instead of the... out-hole, so he struggled with that for a second. Mikey sighed and stepped forward, grabbed the thing and yanked it off in one smooth motion, leaving Gerard rather dazed. He smiled, embarrassed. “Thanks, dude.”

Frank was already in the shower, fiddling with knobs. He yelped when he managed to turn it on and got blasted with a jet of cold water, but Gerard and Mikey ignored him.

“Give it a sec to warm up,” Gerard said.

Another screech from Frank. He'd found the hot knob.

“We're good!” He called after a moment, and only then did Gerard take off his socks and briefs and get inside. Mm, Frank was right, they were _good_. Gerard had almost forgotten how awesome it was to take a proper, hot shower – okay, he'd taken one at Frank's house and had enjoyed that pretty thoroughly, but this was better, if only because he was sandwiched between Frank and Mikey.

Frank turned around, the top of his head only up to Gerard's nose, and scrunched up his face against the spray. Gerard could see every imperfection in his skin under the fluorescents, every blemish and fleck of blood apparent. He was surprised to realize that he was okay with that, with the flaws: Frank wouldn't be Frank if he was airbrushed. And Gerard grinned, wide and genuine, and tipped his head back to rest on Mikey's shoulder, closing his eyes and letting the water burn his face.

“Mikey,” Gerard crooned, in that weird little accent he acquired when he was happy, defined syllables and a drawn-out 'y'.

“Gerard,” Mikey mimicked.

“Frankie!” Said Frank. Gerard wasn't sure, but he thought he felt Mikey smile into his hair.

“Hey Frank, gimme the shampoo.”

“Say please.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “ _Please_ give me the fucking shampoo.”

“All you had to do was ask nicely,” Frank said, and Gerard squinted at him through the droplets. Bastard.

Mikey grabbed the bottle when he passed it, too, leaving Gerard groping around in mid-air. “Can I?” Mikey asked, and, realizing he wasn't going to get the stuff in his hair any other way, Gerard shrugged and nodded. And then Mikey was squeezing it into the palm of his hand and Frank was complaining, something like 'I thought _I_ was the hair person!' And Gerard didn't even give two fucks, because Mikey's hands were _in his hair_ , massaging the cheap shampoo into his scalp with fingers splayed, lathering up and down and maybe, just maybe, this was as good as sex. Gerard moaned. He actually did.

“Like that?” Mikey asked, though the answer was obvious, so he didn't actually wait for a reply. “Shit, Gee, it's greasy as hell. When was the last time you took a shower?”

“Two days ago!” Gerard said, indignant. “ _And_ I conditioned!”

“Don't condition,” Frank said, turning back around to face him again.

“But it prevents split ends!”

“Then use better shampoo,” he advised. “Something designed for oily hair.”

“I used _your_ shampoo!” said Gerard.

“His hair is always greasy,” Mikey added. “It's okay.”

Gerard tried to glare at him but failed miserably. “Fuck you,” he said, but couldn't make himself mean it.

“You should,” Frank mumbled, placing his hands on Gerard's thighs and trailing them up toward his chest, making swirls in the water clinging to his skin. Mikey didn't say anything – the mood became intimate in those few seconds, somehow, and before Gerard realized it, Frank's fingers were playing across his hairline, rubbing tiny circles into his scalp. “Need some help?” he whispered, and then his hands were right there with Mikey's and his thigh was between Gerard's, grinding not-so-subtly against him. “Mm, Gee, hard already,” he smirked.

“Fuck you,” Gerard panted again, and Frank twisted his hands in his hair – not incredibly effective, considering they slipped right through – and pulled him in for a bruising kiss. It tasted of blood and shampoo, and it was fucking incredible.

“Rinse,” Mikey said tersely, shoving Gerard forward and, by proxy, shoving Frank off. Frank caught himself though, feet slipping against the non-slip mat in the bottom of the tub, and then he caught Gerard, hands still in his hair.

“Tip your head back,” he said. Gerard tipped his head back obediently and held still while Mikey carded slender fingers through his hair. To his credit, he only started squirming when the shampoo was mostly gone and his hair snagged, tiny pinpricks of pain prickling across his scalp.

“Mikes,” he groaned, partially out of mild discomfort and partially because Frank was now mouthing against his collarbone and he was so hard it hurt. Mikey payed him no mind – say what you like about his submissive streak; when it came to Gerard's personal hygiene, he was fucking unyielding. Not when it came to his _own_ personal hygiene, mind you, but his brother's? That shit was worth fighting for, apparently.

“Body wash,” Mikey said, and Frank passed it immediately. Fuck, they were conspiring against him! On Frank's part, conspiring included basically humping his leg. Mikey uncapped the bottle, poured some into his palm and passed it back.

“For baby-soft skin,” Frank commented, examining the label.

“Put extra on my ass and you can pretend I'm Ryan,” Gerard smirked. Damn, that was harsh. He could basically feel Mikey glowering at the back of his head. “Sorry,” he said. “You can smack me for that one. I deserve it.”

“Psst,” Frank hissed in a stage-whisper. “You're supposed to smack _him_.”

Gerard would have come up with some witty retort, but Mikey chose that moment to smack his ass. Hard. Gerard yelped instead.

“Hey, I wasn't being _serious_!”

“Too bad, motherfucker,” Mikey deadpanned. Frank was giggling, the bastard.

It was okay, though; Gerard couldn't force himself to be deeply offended or anything because Mikey was rubbing the soap stuff into his skin, soothing the area and working his way up Gerard's back, massaging it into his shoulders, his neck.

“Hnng,” said Gerard.

“Stop moaning,” said Mikey. “Frank looks like he's about to come in his pants if you don't.” Gerard cracked an eye and tried to focus on Frank's face as opposed to his boner. It didn't really help, considering Frank's face portrayed his arousal _more_ than his boner, eyes lidded, biting his lip.

“He doesn't have pants,” said Gerard. Then, doing his best to be authoritative: “Frankie! Stop humping my leg, or whatever.”

“ _Or whatever_ ,” Frank mimicked, but he stopped.

“And rinse,” said Mikey, maneuvering Gerard back into the water and watching the suds slide off his skin. Being clean didn't feel much different than being covered in sweat and (possibly) bodily fluids, Gerard thought, but Frank and Mikey seemed to appreciate it: Frank was busy shoving his face into Gerard's armpit, which would be pretty fucking weird under any other circumstances, and Mikey was nuzzling his hair. It was funny, because Mikey by all accounts resented personal hygiene just as much as his brother, and yet he seemed to be getting quite a kick from this. Maybe it was more of a ritualistic thing, because Mikey was admittedly all over that kind of shit. Maybe Mikey just wanted an excuse to rub his hands all over Gerard's body.

“Am I done?” Gerard asked, and he could feel Mikey nod behind him.

“Mikey says yes,” supplied Frank.

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Frankie.”

“No problem. Can we fuck now?”

“Jeez, you make it sound so appealing,” Gerard grumbled, but then he realized he was complaining about sex, what the fuck. “I mean yeah, of course.”

“Awesome.”

And it just kind of progressed from there. Now, for the record, Gerard didn't really consider himself great at taking control of the situation, so to speak. Sure, maybe he was a little sadistic, but that just meant he thought it was hot when Mikey was in pain. It didn't mean he really knew how to inflict that pain, and it certainly didn't mean he could control Mikey like his brother obviously wanted.

He might deny it if questioned, but Gerard was having second thoughts. He was fucking nervous, okay? And while this was going through his head, while he was having one of his little miniature nervous breakdowns, Frank was spinning him around to face his brother and maneuvering himself into the corner with the best view.

“Frank?” Mikey said, raising an eyebrow and craning his neck to see – or not see, as the case may be, missing glasses and all – Frank's tiny form, taking up a disproportionate amount of visual space.

Maybe Mikey couldn't see it, but Gerard sure as hell could: Frank, mouth open and lips swollen from where he'd bitten them and scarred from where Gerard had bitten them, flushed from the heat of the water and shivering from the cool air wafting through the curtain, hard and yet determinedly not touching himself. A beautiful contradiction.

“C -- can you kiss him?” Frank asked, stuttering more from arousal than any legitimate hesitation.

“Mikey?” Gerard asked, and Frank nodded, shaking droplets out of his hair.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's hot.”

That was okay; Gerard understood the attraction there: Mikey _was_ hot, and Frank seemed to think Gerard was hot too, though Gerard was still not entirely convinced of that fact. And Gerard and Mikey were _brothers_ , which seemed to really turn Frank on for some reason. Gerard had a feeling it had something to do with the inherent social taboo of the situation, sort of like how he liked blood partially because he wasn't supposed to.

He briefly considered asking Mikey if this was okay, but then remembered that he was supposed to be _taking_. So he did; he grabbed Mikey's damp hair and crushed their lips together awkwardly, the water adhering his open palm to Mikey's hip. That was okay too, because Mikey seemed to be cool with awkward. Seemed to like it, even, though maybe Gerard was projecting. _Gerard_ kind of liked it when his teeth cut the inside of his lips, when Mikey couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, because those things were little reminders that through all the talk of power and submission, they were still just Gerard and Mikey, the weird kids who shared the same pair of ripped-up skinny jeans throughout Gerard's senior year, once he'd finally lost enough weight to wear his little brother's clothes.

And so when their lips met, Gerard didn't mind that his feet slipped against the non-slip lining in the bottom of the tub, and he was pretty sure Mikey didn't mind that water was the worst lube ever, adding more friction to the slide of his cock against Gerard's hip than was strictly comfortable. Frank certainly didn't seem to mind, if his enthusiastic encouragement was anything to go with.

“Fuck, Gerard, do you have any idea how hot you guys are?”

Mikey grunted, maybe a 'yes'.

Frank ignored him. “Want you so fucking bad, Gee – Mikey, fucking _both_ of you.” It struck Gerard that this was a lot easier than doing the talking himself. Because as much as Frank claimed he wanted Gerard to, uh, use him, he was pretty fucking good at toping from the bottom, or whatever. Knew exactly what he wanted, where as Gerard was still a bit lost. This was good. This could work for everybody.

Gerard broke the kiss for a moment to speak. “Tell me what you want, Frankie. Anything you want us to do.”

Frank's eyes widened – he shut them immediately after, to keep the water out of them, but the feeling was there. He re-braced his feet to avoid slipping. “You want me to..?” He began, but Gerard was otherwise occupied, licking water droplets off Mikey's neck, down to the soaked bandage.

Woah, hold on a second.

“Shouldn't we have taken this off?” He asked, suddenly nervous again. “Is it okay for it to get wet?”

Mikey took a break from panting at the ceiling to shake his head abashedly. “Uh,” he panted, “we'll probably have to change it. I don't know, I've just been keeping it out of the water.”

Gerard had a sneaking suspicion that he kept it out of the water by avoiding contact with water all together, but gave Mikey the benefit of the doubt. “It should be okay to take the bandage off for now, as long as it's totally scabbed over.” Mikey nodded, though Gerard got the impression he was mostly clueless about the subject. Gerard took a deep breath and began unwinding. It somehow felt far more intimate than actually undressing him had, though the tease-and-reveal of skin was the same. This was... _damaged_ skin, which was pretty different. He could feel Mikey cringe under his touch and look away, but was himself fascinated with the healing wound – and it _was_ mostly healed, scabbed over and surrounded by taut skin and light scars. Strangely beautiful.

“You look much better,” Gerard said in an attempt to console him. He mean to say 'it looks much better', but Mikey took it well anyway.

“Thanks, Gee,” he said. They kissed again, Mikey initiating this time, and Gerard tried not to touch his shoulder. Giving up, he settled for a tight grip on Mikey's upper arm, stroking the edges of the wound with his thumb. He felt bad about it, sure, but just couldn't keep his hands off – besides, Mikey moaned when he did it, and that was probably a good thing.

He turned back to Frank after long last, who was still practically salivating in the corner. “Sorry,” Gerard said. “You were saying?”

Frank coughed and tried to find his voice, and Gerard got the distinct impression that he was still reeling, just a little bit, maybe from seeing proof of Gerard's stories in person. “C -- could you...?” He trailed off.

“Tell me what you want, Frankie,” Gerard repeated.

“I want you to fuck him.”

And the hesitation was gone; the stuttering was gone, replaced by complete, helpless conviction. The answer wasn't exactly a surprise, but his words made Mikey shudder nonetheless.

Gerard glanced at his brother, registered the need in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said.

And this _was_ okay; Gerard was in the zone now. He could do this. Deep breath.

“Hands on the wall, Mikey,” he began, relishing his brother's immediate response and the way the position pulled skin tight across his ribcage, flexed the muscles in his back. Mikey was fucking gorgeous. Gerard couldn't help but brace himself behind him and lean down to mouth at his shoulder blade, where – if he concentrated – he thought he could still taste iron. And once he was there, it was hard to take his mouth off Mikey's skin. Without thinking, he slid his mouth lower, down his back, biting at his hip, and suddenly he was face-to-face with Mikey's ass.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. The position brought about what could only be described as impure thoughts, if such a thing even existed for Gerard at this point. This was something he'd been thinking about for awhile now, fantasizing, maybe, but it was – it was _weird_ , okay, and he wasn't really sure how Mikey would react. But he wanted to, so fucking badly, and so he took it slow. Gerard started with a finger, slick with spit, which he was sure Mikey had experienced before. It was different because Gerard was on his knees, right there, front-row-seats and all that, but it wasn't exactly unfamiliar territory.

Gerard took another deep breath and tried not to hyperventilate. “Soap?”

Frank passed him soap.

For good measure, Gerard lathered what he could reach of Mikey's back, paying special attention to his cock and the surrounding area, and at least things weren't weird yet. He coated his fingers in the stuff and delved back in, intently watching the muscles of Mikey's thighs clench.

“Gee, what are you--” but he was already rinsing, thorough and precise.  
He'd discovered that things generally progressed more easily when he didn't think too hard about anything at all: not Frank's labored breathing, Mikey's knees, bent awkwardly inward, or his own fingertips digging into the soft flesh of Mikey's thighs, spreading him apart. Not his tongue in Mikey's ass or the sharp gasp above him.

“Fuck,” Mikey and Frank groaned in unison. Gerard had to resist laughing, which wasn't incredibly difficult considering his mouth was otherwise occupied.

This was maybe the weirdest thing he'd ever done, which was really saying something. It wasn't bad-weird either, which was a pleasant surprise: Mikey mostly just tasted like soap and body-wash. What was surprising was how hard it was to keep a rhythm up and how quickly he got tired, eventually giving up on moving his tongue and just mouthing the area instead, letting his jaw do the work. It was nothing like going down on a girl, though Gerard's experience in that subject was incredibly limited: much tighter, much more taboo, and Mikey was way more vocal about it, practically begging the whole time, _harder, faster, more._

Frank spoke unexpectedly. “He wants it, Gee; just look at him.”

“Fuck yeah,” Mikey confirmed. And it was kind of strange, Frank talking because Gerard couldn't – he wouldn't know what to say even if he could – but then again, talking seemed to be one of Frank's strong points, and it sure as hell got Mikey off.

He was pressed up against Mikey's side when he next spoke, fisting a hand in his hair and wrenching his head back to hiss in his ear. “Wanna feel your brother's cock in your ass, huh Mikey? Go ahead and beg him, you little slut.” And Frank was _smiling_.

Fuck. Was this overstepping some boundary, Frank ordering his... Mikey around like that? Gerard wasn't really sure where Frank was even supposed to fit into this: innocent bystander? Voyeur? Or whatever it was he was doing now, some sort of vicarious top, despite his earlier shyness? A switch, or something, and Gerard had promised Frank he'd never be their third wheel. Whatever, Gerard couldn't think about this now. Mikey was way into it, so Gerard wasn't going to stop him.

“Gerard, need it so bad. Need you to fuck me,” Mikey panted. Gerard had never seen him like this before, because even on that night three weeks ago, with Gerard's tongue in his brother's mouth and his goddamn fingers smearing blood down his shoulder, Mikey didn't _beg_ – he retained some semblance of control. This was fucking beautiful, his emotions completely out in the open for Gerard to toy with as he pleased. It was a heady thought.

Frank spoke even as Gerard was standing up: “Say please, Mikey,” and Mikey played straight into his hands.

“ _Please_ , Gee, oh God just fucking _do_ it--” and then Frank shut him up, apparently satisfied, with lips on Mikey's lips and the hand in his hair holding him still. Damn, Gerard was starting to see the appeal: watching Frank make out with his brother was fucking hot, even though he never thought he'd be into that sort of thing. Then again, he never thought he'd want to rim Mikey either.

“Fuck, uh, lube?” Gerard asked, interrupting them.

Mikey shook his head. “I’m fine.”

And Gerard cocked an eyebrow -- it was much more effective when Mikey did it, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “Mikey, no. What, is this just you being impatient?”

Frank took that opportunity to lean in closer, scrunching up his face against the water, somehow still solemn. “I think it’s just a Mikey thing,” he stage-whispered. And oh, that made too much sense for Gerard’s liking.

“No, Mikes,” he said, suddenly in big-brother mode. “Mikey. Listen, I know you _think_ you’d like it, but I really don’t--”

“You can just use conditioner!” Frank chimed in. “Doesn’t hurt like shampoo would.”

They both stared at Frank for a good fifteen seconds. Fuck, Mikey was going to freak out or something; he could just feel it. And Gerard didn’t blame him -- Gerard was going to freak out too, because they were actually going to do this, weren’t they? Gerard was actually going to fuck his brother, in the tiny little shower in his brother’s sort-of-boyfriend’s apartment, with Frank standing there and giving them sex tips and fucking _watching_ \--

“Did you learn that from Cosmo?” Mikey deadpanned. The water dripping through his long fringe and into his face only intensified the effect of complete, utter sincerity -- and then Frank cracked a smile and Gerard couldn’t be sure, but he thought Mikey did too, and everything was cool again. Damn, Mikey was so much cooler than Gerard. So much cooler.

“Personal experience, actually,” Frank said, uncapping the conditioner because he was an instant-gratification kind of guy. Gerard extended his hand in anticipation, but Frank just poured it in his own palm and stuck out his tongue. That crafty motherfucker!

“Ooh, tell me about it,” Mikey said, and Gerard honestly couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or not, which was kind of different because he could almost always tell.

“Well, Mom and I were in this hotel in Erie--”

“Please don’t tell me about it,” said Mikey, and Gerard snorted despite himself. Okay, sarcasm. He could deal with that.

Without warning, Frank grabbed Gerard’s dick and attempted to slick it up, making Gerard jump back an inch or so. He would have fallen over, too, if it weren’t for the fact that the shower stall’s size made it less ideal for sex than a mall photo booth.

“What the fuck?” Gerard groaned, but Frank just grinned and squeezed a little bit. Ow.

“Deal with it, motherfucker!”

“You know, I never thought sex with you two would involve so much arguing,” Mikey said, and Frank sort of calmed down after that. He didn't give Gerard any conditioner though, which could only mean one thing.

“I hope you don't mind if I finger your brother,” Frank said, but he was already up to his first knuckle. Mikey groaned when he added a second, and Gerard groaned at how goddamn _easy_ it went in.

“Fuck, I'm ready, please. C'mon, Gee,” said Mikey, unconsciously pushing back against Frank's hand.

Now, Gerard was all for teasing him, but he couldn't put up with another second of this himself. Without warning, he grabbed Frank's wrist and slid him out, pushed him unceremoniously out of the way. Frank immediately scrambled back into the center of attention, trying to squeeze himself between Mikey and the wall, but Gerard couldn't be bothered to comment. He grabbed Mikey's slim hips and slammed home.

“ _Gerard_ ,” Mikey groaned, voice cracking on the second syllable. Gerard hummed his assent, withdrew almost all the way, and slammed back in with enough force that he silently thanked God for the shower grips on the opposite wall, to which Mikey was holding on for dear life – knowing Pete, Gerard was pretty sure they were installed for this purpose exactly.

Gerard was also pretty sure that this was the most intense thing he'd ever felt in his life, though admittedly, he assigned that title to the majority of his sexual encounters. But for _real_ this time, there was no feeling in the world better than his brother tight around him, panting and squirming and maybe trying to beg, failing miserably. Fuck, he was going to come if he didn't distract himself.

“Frank,” Gerard said, breathless. “G -- get on your knees. Suck him off.” Frank seemed happy to oblige and sank to the floor immediately, wrapping his hands around the backs of Mikey's calves.

~

Also for the record, Frank was doing this because he _wanted_ to, not because Gerard told him too. Not entirely. And if the big reason he wanted to do it in the first place was because Gerard wanted him to do it, whatever. He was doing it, and that was the important part.

Frank had, up until that point, imagined his first blowjob would be special, or failing that, imagined it would at least be _Gerard's_ dick down his throat. He could live with this, he supposed – probably easier with Mikey's size, too – but he still felt unnaturally high off that feeling of uncertainty, of changed plans. Spontaneity. He was glad that he could get involved, too, but mostly glad that he didn't have to do anything involving anybody else touching his dick in any way: he was pretty sure he couldn't handle that.

He had to crane his neck a little to even get in position, so he re-adjusted his legs, feet splayed for a tiny boost in height, and Frank should be a fucking gymnast or something. He didn't even know his feet _did_ that. Things were a lot easier once he was at eye level, and it also gave him a chance to kind of stare at Mikey's cock for a little bit, though he would never admit that staring at Mikey's cock was something he was even remotely interested in. And, uh, blowjobs: he was pretty sure he knew how this was supposed to work, because at least he'd been on the receiving end before. He'd watched a lot of porn, too, but didn't think that was a great instructional guide. He also had a hunch that they used prosthetic silicon dicks for a lot of it, and he wasn't going to trust anything that advocated making dongs out of the same stuff you use to make ice cube trays. Anyway, he started with a tentative lick to the head, and that wasn't so bad, so he took a little more into his mouth. Mikey pulled his hair.

“Ow, what, motherfucker?”

“No teeth,” Mikey panted.

“Sorry,” Frank mumbled.

This wasn't a whole lot different than mouthing him through his pants had been, except now he could take a whole lot more, gag reflex permitting. And it didn't matter that he was drooling out of the corners of his mouth, because nobody could tell through the water. He found a happy rhythm, bobbing his head up and down the shaft, sucking a little extra at the head, and Mikey didn't seem to mind that it was sloppy and uncoordinated. Actually, Mikey didn't really seem capable of complaining anymore – he'd stopped talking all together, opting instead for a steady stream of “ah, ah, ah,” every time Gerard thrust. Frank sped up as much as he could, which wasn't really very much. His fingernails were digging into the backs of Mikey's calves, and Gerard was saying something. He pulled back.

“Huh?” he asked.

“I said pull back, Frankie--”

And then Frank got a load to the face, which was, in retrospect, probably to be expected. Gerard was fucking giggling above him, asshole, and Frank realized that he hadn't given his obligatory safe sex speech, and fuck, Gerard was barebacking, wasn't he? Stupid motherfucker. They were all going to _die_. Like, they had both been sort of covered in Gerard’s blood already, but still.

Anyway, it was too late to remedy that, so Frank decided to deal with the situation at hand: that is, Mikey's jizz on his face. Eww.

'Dealing with it' involved attempting to rinse while Gerard laughed and failing because the other two were mostly blocking the water. In the end, he just used his hand and wiped it on Mikey, who didn't seem to mind. No, Mikey was busy gripping the sex handles – Frank assumed that was what they were for, considering you were usually supposed to mount those things horizontally to keep old people from slipping and dieing in the shower, and these bars were neither horizontal nor in an apartment housing anyone over thirty. So, sex handles. He wouldn't put it past Pete to try. Anyway, Mikey was busy holding those, white-knuckled, and trembling with the effort of standing upright. His feet slipped apart a few centimeters every time Gerard rammed into him. Frank was once again awestruck by how fucking _good_ Mikey looked, how he could be sexy even with his gangly limbs and awkward demeanor – and how hot he was completely spent, letting Gerard use him and moaning softly for his benefit. Frank may have said parts of this out loud; he wasn't sure.

He didn't even see his orgasm coming, but when it hit him it was brief and mind-blowingly intense, just a few pulses and it was over. Frank didn't even fucking remember touching himself, but his hand came away sticky and so he wiped that on Mikey too.

~

“Mikey Mikey Mikey _Mikey_ \--” Gerard gasped, voice drastically increasing in pitch with each repetition of his brother's name. He dug his nails into Mikey's hips, no doubt marring his skin with more crescents to match the ones on his calves.

“Gee,” Mikey hummed in response, and Gerard came, holding his hips still, shuddering. When it was over, he just sort of slumped forward but caught himself – Mikey was a scrawny dude; Gerard didn't expect him to hold his weight – and leaned against the wall instead.

Slowly, still in some sort of post-coital glow, Mikey righted himself and turned off the water, ignoring Frank still sitting between his legs.  
“We never did your hair,” Gerard said.

Mikey nodded. “I washed it two days ago. It's okay.”

They stood in silence – knelt, in Frank's case – for a few moments before Gerard began to feel the draft, pronounced in the absence of hot water. Come to think of it, they probably used up most of Pete's hot water on top of ruining his sheets, but whatever.

Gerard raised his eyebrows in Mikey's direction, like, _it's fucking cold in here. Bedroom?_ And they both stepped out of the shower at the exact same moment, leaving Frank momentarily shivering and confused until Mikey grabbed his hand and yanked him none-too-gracefully to his feet.

They pulled on what sparse clothing they'd brought, though Frank didn't even bother with that, instead wrapping a threadbare towel around his waist to protect his modesty, if he had any modesty left to protect. All of this proved futile, seeing as the living room was now devoid of people save Pete, sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching TV – and Pete seemed like the last person who would be bothered by impromptu nudity – Ryan and Skinny Jeans still passed out on top of each other on the couch, and Bob somehow supporting his weight on the coffee table. He looked up when they came in, surprisingly lucid and void of Panda Eyes.

“Morning,” said Frank.

“I hope you know these walls are paper thin,” said Bob, narrowing his eyes. His hair was somehow completely perfect, still spiked into a little faux-hawk on top of his head.

Gerard fidgeted – he had a feeling it was his job to apologize. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sorry. Thought you'd still be asleep.”

“Did you guys have microphones in there?” Pete asked, not ungluing his eyes from _Authentic Italian Cooking_. Gerard didn't answer, feeling that he had no right to protest when he'd ruined Pete's sheets – though he really wouldn't be surprised if it took Pete another few months to change them – used his hot water, and supposedly woken his guests from their alcoholic stupors.

At that moment, Ray emerged from the kitchen, platter in hand.

“Ray!” Frank all but squealed, and he launched himself bodily in Ray's direction. He would have made it too, and probably divested himself of the towel, had Mikey not caught him at the last second.

“He has food; don't attack him,” said Mikey. Ray just smiled and set down the platter – which revealed itself to actually be an old school lunch tray, big surprise – on the table next to Bob.

“Holy fuck,” Gerard breathed despite himself, at the same time Frank hollered:

“Motherfucking pancakes!”

Pete's eyes practically rolled back in his head. “Ray Toro, you are my favorite person ever,” he said, and he actually stood up and hugged Ray, who just looked surprised and mildly terrified. Which was legitimate, considering what Pete was doing was actually less 'hugging' and more 'simultaneously suffocating and dry-humping'. He pulled away grinning as Ray's hair bounced back into shape, like Jello from a mold. “We don't even have Jiffy!” He said.

Ray shrugged, but Gerard could tell he was secretly pleased. “You can make pancakes without Jiffy.”

“Since when can you cook?” Gerard wondered out loud.

“Well, pancakes are kind of all I can do. And this is the third batch. The other ones looked like tire rubber.” And he grinned full-out then, not trying to hide it, unbearably cheery for the morning after. Actually, aside from Pete and the illustrated missionary position on the couch, everybody seemed to be doing pretty well in general. Sure, the three of them could probably attribute it to post-orgasm high working as some sort of magic headache eraser, but whatever: Gerard felt good, and from the looks of it, so did Ray. Like, really fucking good. Gerard wasn't sure he'd seen him smile this much ever.

“And I only found three forks,” Ray was saying, “so the rest of you are gonna have to use spoons. I hope that's okay.” Out of the corner of his eye, Gerard saw Bob snatch a fork covertly from the tray. “Tell me if you eat it all. There's a little bit of batter left.”

And so Gerard and company, who had been planning to go back to sleep or something, sat down and ate pancakes and it was fucking awesome.

“And it tastes like cheesecake if you use cream cheese – the shitty kind of cheesecake, like you get at grocery stores – so you've gotta buy the expensive shit,” Frank was saying through a mouthful of mostly syrup, babbling at an uninterested Pete, who had eaten two pancakes, thrown up in the bathroom, and was now poking at a third.

“Dude, why would I ever want to make Teramisu?” Pete asked, glaring at his plate, initial pancake-induced cheer gone.

“Because it's fucking awesome!”

And Ray was kneeling on the floor next to Bob, letting Bob bend down and steal bites of syrupy pancake from his fork, smiling like he'd just won Frank's mega-lottery. Gerard smiled to himself, too, but didn't say anything. Bob's lip ring kept getting caught on the fork.

“Hey Mikes?” Gerard asked, turning to his brother, who had somehow made three pancakes vanish without letting anyone see him take a bite.

“Hm?” Asked Mikey through a full mouth. _How the hell did he do that?_

“Did you know you're in a band now?”

Ray choked on his pancakes. Bob hit him on the back a couple of times, nowhere near the actual Heimlich, and he somehow managed to swallow. “You haven't _told_ him yet?”

Gerard fidgeted. “Not really?”

“Told me what?” Mikey asked, exasperated.

Ray threw his hands up in there air, _don't look at me for help_ , and sighed.

“Told me _what_?” Mikey asked again.

“Fuck, uh,” and Gerard had just been too caught up in his twisted social life to remember, honestly. “Well, we're in a band now. Ray and Frank play guitar, and Bob drums. And, uh, I sing.”

Mikey stared at him incredulously. “You _sing_?”

“And um, you play bass.”

Fuck, he was pissed. Gerard could tell; he was pissed. “And when were you planning on telling me this?”

Oh well, he might as well get it out in the open. “And Bob has an apartment in Chicago,” he barreled on, ignoring Mikey's question, “and we want you to come back with us.”

All the anger seemed to drain out of Mikey's face, replaced only with tired resignation. There was a long pause during which nobody spoke; nobody ate except Pete, who seemed mostly oblivious to the conversation. At last, Mikey sighed and looked up at Gerard with world-weary eyes. “I want to, Gee. I really do.”

“Then do it!” Gerard said, too quickly.

“But what about college? What about Mom?”

And Gerard grabbed one of Mikey's hands in both of his, pleading with him to see reason – well, the opposite of that, really. Pleading with him to see things from Gerard's point of view. “We're young, Mikey. You have plenty of time to go get a job and make something of yourself later, but you can't _do_ this later! You can't just – just _leave_ once you have a job and a girlfriend and--” Frank snorted at 'girlfriend', and Gerard shot him a death glare. “You're not going to get another chance like this.”

Mikey glanced down to where their hands were touching, Gerard's sweaty palm against his. “Can't you just decide for me?” He asked quietly.

Gerard shook his head. “Not this time.”

The room was so quiet that he thought he could hear Mikey's heartbeat. Gerard got the feeling that everybody was holding their breath, but that couldn't be true, because he was pretty sure he was hyperventilating. His face felt numb.

Finally, Mikey spoke.

“When are we leaving?”

Gerard tried not to get too excited; it could have been poorly worded. He wasn't going to take that as any kind of confirmation just yet. “You can take as long as you want,” said Gerard.

“Can we leave now?”

And Gerard just stared at him, stunned. Mikey stared back innocently, eyes wide, biting his bottom lip, the very picture of hopeful sincerity and Gerard couldn't do anything but fucking stare.

“Like, _right_ now?” Frank cut in, saving his ass.

“Right now,” Mikey said. “Before I talk myself out of it.” And then, to jaw-drops around the room, Mikey stood up, went into the bedroom, and emerged about a minute later fully clothed, with what appeared to be a pile of dirty laundry in one arm. He slipped on his shoes, opened the door, and walked out, letting it swing shut behind him with a final 'click'.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then Frank said:

“Did that really just happen?”

Gerard came to his senses, leaped out of his seat and ran after Mikey.

“Mikes! Mikey!” He called, grinning like a maniac and sprinting out to the van where he could see his brother's thin silhouette in the passenger-side window. He flung open the door to find Mikey there, equally happy in his own way, laundry – which Gerard now realized was the pile of clothes he'd been keeping at Pete's – at his feet.

“Mikes,” he panted, because apparently fifteen seconds of running left him out of breath, “Mikey. We've gotta get your stuff from the house!”

“ 'Kay,” said Mikey. “I'll wait here.”

Gerard hesitated and then decided that fuck it, if Mikey wanted to go now, they were going now. He grabbed his brother by the hair, kissed him on the forehead briefly and slammed the door in his face, skidded back into the foyer.

“Guys!” He yelled, and then lowered his voice when Pete covered his ears and groaned in pain. “Guys. Get your stuff together and meet me in the van!”

“ _Now_?” Ray and Bob asked simultaneously.

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Fucking now! Come on!” And he turned on his heel and walked right back out to the car, opened the passenger seat and dragged Mikey out of it, laundry and all.

“Bob gets shotgun, sorry.”

“Why?” Mikey protested, already opening the back door of his own volition.

Gerard shrugged. “Dunno.” And as an afterthought: “Doesn't matter; there's a table in the back. It's awesome.”

Mikey hummed as he slid into the seat, Gerard close behind. The door slammed. Things were marginally darker. Three minutes later, he could still see Ray fucking around, silhouetted in the window. By the time Frank made it outside and slid into the seat across from them, Mikey and Gerard still hadn't made out. Which, honestly, was a motherfucking injustice: they were alone in an enclosed space, and it didn't really matter if anybody walked in on them, so what _else_ were they supposed to do? But Gerard didn't sulk or anything; Mikey was probably just in the wrong mood to make out. That was cool. Gerard didn't _always_ want to swap spit with Frank. Nobody can be ready all the time.

“Road trip, motherfuckers!” Frank crowed, and he attempted to jam his seatbelt into the wrong buckle at least three times before trying the other one.

“First we've gotta swing by Mikey's house and grab his bass and stuff,” Gerard said reasonably.

Frank scrunched up his face. “Can I wait in the car?”

Gerard looked to Mikey for help, but his brother was lost in his own little world. “You used to live there too, you know,” he said quietly.

“Huh?”

“You said 'Mikey's house'. Is it not yours anymore?” Mikey asked, glancing up at him through the hair in his face. His glasses had slid down to the bottom of his nose again – they seemed to be in a constant state of almost falling off – and he was wearing a deep v-neck that Gerard had never seen him in before, tight enough that he suspected it was from the little girls' section of Sears. Again. It left his neck exposed, displaying the collar in stark contrast to his pale skin.

Gerard absently fingered the key around his neck and sighed. Not unhappily, he realized – just, everything was a little bit overwhelming. “I guess it's not,” he said, and he glanced across the table to Frank, who was watching them intently, not saying a word. Gerard placed both hands on the faux wood, palms down. Almost immediately, Frank and Mikey both reached to cover one with hands of their own, and Gerard couldn't help but smile. “Jeez, guys, plenty of me to go around here.”

Frank grinned and dug his nails into Gerard's wrist. They stayed like that for a little bit, all of them secretly expecting Ray and Bob to open the doors at any second, reluctant to go any further. Gerard looked up at Frank, whose expression had changed considerably, to something resembling worry. It was hard to tell with Frank. He was biting his lip, staring at their joined hands, but that could really be anything from boredom to hunger to sexual tension.

To Gerard's amazement, Mikey spoke first. “What's up, Frankie?”

Frank's head shot up, eyes wide, like he'd been caught jerking it to his dad's Playboys, and Gerard totally understood; he felt the same way. And if he'd used _Fangoria_ in lieu of _Playboy_ when he was a kid, whatever. Nobody had to know that. He vaguely wondered if he still had those back issues under his bed.

“Just thinking,” said Frank, smiling confusedly. Frank could do that, because he had a smile that corresponded to every emotion anyone could have. That guy could probably smile angrily if he really wanted to. “Frankie?” He asked after a moment.

Mikey shrugged. “It's what Gerard calls you. Sorry.”

“No, it's cool,” Frank said, maybe a little too quickly.

Gerard cracked a smile at this. “You hated it when I first stared.” And Frank flushed.

“Yeah, well, you came in your pants when I first called you Gee, so suck it.”

“I did not--” Gerard said indignantly, but Frank and Mikey were already over it, like, staring into each other's eyes or some bullshit like that. Gerard's eyebrows shot up. _He_ was supposed to be the only one with telepathy! “Hey, what's going on?” He asked, feeling just a bit left out.

“I was thinking; I told you,” said Frank, breaking their connection to look at Gerard. “ 'Bout us.”

“Us,” said Mikey, maybe a question, maybe a confirmation.

“The three of us. I mean,” and Frank placed his other hand over Mikey's. “Is this going to work?”

“I don't know,” Gerard admitted. And he didn't, really – didn't feel like he knew much of anything these days, but he knew he loved Frank, and he knew he loved Mikey, and he knew that he was the greediest motherfucker on the planet and that there was no way he was giving either of them up. He knew how fucking lucky he was to find guys open-minded enough to try it. He sort of wanted to say all of this out loud, but he was too much of a pussy.

“Do you wanna talk it out?” Frank asked reluctantly. Gerard was suddenly overcome with a surge of gratitude, because Frank had actually _offered_ to talk about their relationship for once in his goddamn life--

“No,” Gerard said. “It's okay,” and he looked up, from Frank to Mikey, and smiled. “We'll just make it up as we go.”

Mikey snorted, and it startled the fuck out of everyone involved, because Mikey rarely laughed. “What?” Mikey asked, wide-eyed. “I just think it's kind of funny. I mean, making it up as we go.”

“How's that funny?” Frank asked, well-intentioned.

Mikey shrugged. “It's just that lately, Gee seems to make up everything as he goes along. It's like, a philosophy or something.”

“Oh,” said Gerard. “I'm sorry.”

“No, don't apologize!” Mikey said, and he put his hand over Frank's without thinking, forming some kind of weird triangle. _A love triangle_ , Gerard's brain supplied, and he mentally slapped himself because that was fucking stupid. And it was more of a love triforce anyway, if you looked at it right. “Don't apologize. I think it's good for you.”

Yeah, like Mikey was one to talk about what's good for him – Mikey, the fucking king of self-destructive behavior. Sure. Maybe this was apparent on his face, because Mikey seemed mildly hurt.

“I'm serious. Anything's better than sulking in Mom's basement.”

“Hey--” Gerard began, but Frank cut him off.

“Chill, dude. It's a good thing.”

There was a long moment of silence, Gerard watching Frank watch Mikey. He was thinking, Gerard could see it on his face, and Frank always made ridiculous faces when he was thinking.

“What's up?” Gerard asked at last, tired of the suspense.

“Huh?” Frank looked up. “Uh, I was just wondering. Mikey, did you ever bandage your shoulder again?”

Realization dawned on Mikey's face, and it was a visible transformation, which was again, kind of weird for Mikey. “Shit, no. Should we--?”

“Lemme see,” said Frank, and without further warning he leaned across the table and attempted to tug Mikey's shirt over his head one-handed, only succeeding in catching it at his neck and knocking his glasses halfway off. Mikey rolled his eyes and slapped Frank's hands away, removed the shirt himself and fixed his glasses. Gerard froze. Seeing it up close was different.

It was mostly healed, partially scabbed over and fuck, Gerard didn't remember it being that deep. And he knew it wasn't his fault, but somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that he did this to his brother. It made him a little sick, turned him on just a bit -- and that fact made him quite a bit more sick.

“It's okay, we can do it now,” Gerard found himself saying. “There's a first-aid kit under the passenger seat.”

Frank was under the table with his arm halfway under the seat before Gerard even finished his sentence, and after a moment of fishing around aimlessly, he emerged triumphant. Instead of going back to his seat, he sort of climbed Mikey's legs and situated himself in his lap, half straddling him, one foot still on the floor.

Gerard rolled his eyes. “What are you--”

“Can I do it?” Frank asked, pouting. “Please?”

Oh. Okay, that caught Gerard a little off guard, because why the fuck would Frank want to do it?

They both looked to Mikey for guidance at the same moment, and Mikey shrugged, caught in the spotlight. “Sure,” he said. “If that's cool with Gerard.”

Gerard nodded jerkily. Frank opened the box.

Gauze, Neosporin, disinfecting wipes, medical tape – Frank was suddenly in professional mode, like this was something with which he actually had experience. He wiped his hands and, resolve gone, uncertain, and gingerly squeezed the ointment onto his fingers. He hesitated. “Is this right? Can I do this?”

“Sure,” Gerard said. “It's fine now that it's closed.”

“Okay,” said Frank uncertainly, but he began wiping it on anyway. All the while, Mikey was looking pointedly at the top of Frank's head – there wasn't much else to look at, considering Frank was basically on his lap – and taking slow breaths. The magnitude of the situation suddenly struck Gerard: this was a big deal for Mikey. He could just tell. This was way more intense for him than letting Frank suck his cock.

Satisfied, Frank applied the gauze and began taping it in place. Mikey flinched, almost unnoticeable. “Feels like it's gonna come off,” he said quietly.

“It won't come off,” Gerard assured him. “And if it does, we'll put it back on again.”

“Okay,” said Mikey, and then it was over and Frank wasn't moving, just looking up at Mikey with wide eyes and making his intentions crystal clear. Mikey turned to Gerard for guidance, and it was kind of funny that both of them always tried to wait for the other to make decisions. Gerard supposed it was his job now, technically, to tell Mikey what to do when he was lost – that was kind of a big responsibility, he thought, but he was okay with it because it made Mikey happy.

“Go ahead,” said Gerard.

Mikey let out an almost visible sigh of content and parted his lips the slightest bit, and then Frank was kissing him, surprisingly possessive. Frank seemed to understand their little hierarchy on some basic level, because he never kissed Gerard like that, like he wanted to _own_ him: he had one hand on Mikey's jaw, thumb near the pivot, keeping his mouth open, and the other in his hair, holding him close enough that Gerard was momentarily worried his brother would suffocate. Momentarily, because he realized his brother was probably enjoying that, the crazy motherfucker. And Mikey just tipped his head back and took it, moaning softly, one hand looking for purchase against the seat and the other holding Gerard's tightly enough to leave little crescent-moons where his nails dug into the skin. The position had Frank on his knees above Mikey, and Gerard laughed quietly because he was too fucking short to just sit on his lap. The little dude obviously had some kind of Napoleon complex, and he was squeezing Mikey's thighs together between his knees, a good two inches above him.

The driver's-side door of the van slammed open, and Frank and Mikey broke apart like they'd been shocked. It was too late, though, because Ray was already in his seat and besides, Frank was caught between the table and Mikey. He awkwardly attempted to crawl back to his side of the van.

“Bingo,” Ray mumbled.

“Huh?” Gerard asked eloquently, trying to help Frank scramble back to his seat and failing miserably.

“I've officially walked in on every possible combination of the three of you. If there were the Powerball, I'd be rich.”

Frank grinned. “More like Power _balls_ , am I right?” He looked around and his face fell when he realized nobody else was laughing. “Get it? Like testicles?”

“We get it, Frank,” Mikey sighed.

Ray appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh, actually, which was hilarious solely because it _wasn't_ hilarious.

Bob chose that moment to slide into the passenger seat, took one look at Ray's face and said: “You're talking about balls, aren't you?” And everybody burst out laughing at the same time, and it really was _not_ that funny but nobody cared. Even Bob chuckled. Even _Mikey_ was fucking laughing, and holy shit, that just made Gerard so inexplicably happy he thought he might explode.

When they calmed down, Mikey was still grinning at him. At him; in Gerard's direction, and Gerard was grinning right back, stupidly content.

Ray started the car.

“Ready, guys? We're gonna be fucking famous.”

“Don't get their hopes up,” Bob snorted, gesturing to the back where Frank was practically bouncing in his seat.

“Trust me, his hopes are already through the fucking roof,” Ray said.

“Mikey’s house first, to grab his bass. Then wherever,” Gerard said.

“Roll down the windows!” Frank said.

Gerard raised an eyebrow in his direction, but rolled down his window nonetheless. It still had a little crank too, not like the fancy automatic ones, and Frank leaned over the table even as Ray stepped on the accelerator.

“Hasta la vista, motherfuckers!” Frank crowed into the open air, flailing violently in the direction of the apartment. Gerard caught a glimpse of Pete in the rear-view mirror, standing on his doorstep in his boxers, waving, but the image was almost immediately obscured by Ray's hair blowing in the wind.

The sun was already high in the sky, bouncing off Mikey's glasses and Bob's kit, and Bob was grinning at Ray in the corner of Gerard's vision. Frank sat down, mostly, and smiled at Mikey, like, _I'm glad you're cool with this_. Mikey smiled back like _no big deal_. Gerard smiled at the world in general – and he was overcome with this euphoria, this inexplicable, intensely powerful feeling that things were finally going his way – and if they weren't ever famous, if they ended up broke and begging on the street, if the world got knocked off course by a massive asteroid tomorrow, Gerard had Frank, his brother, his band. And everything was going to be okay.


End file.
